«%#"% 


!3.<: 


i--  » 


Lo<-*' 


■■W^*w 


^ffltlg 


"^ 


>  iii  vv 


THE 


lY  ON   THE  PLACE 


.LLAN 
1909 

All  rif/hl.^ 
W3H   3HT   QUA   QJO   3HT 


t^WTj^^^^: 


THE   OLD   AND   THE   NEW 


THE 


NEW  NEW  YORK 


A   COMMENTARY   ON   THE   PLACE 
AND   THE    PEOPLE 


BY 

JOHN   C.   VAN   DYKE 


ILLUSTRATED 
BY  JOSEPH   PENNELL 


NetD  gork 

THE    MACMILLAN   COMPANY 

1909 

All  rights  reserved 


Copyright,  1909, 
By  the  MACMILLAN  COMPANY. 


Set  up  and  electrotyped.     Published  September,  1909. 


Norfaooli  53tfBS 

J.  S.  Gushing  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith  Co. 

Norwood,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


THE    NEW    NEW    YORK 


•y^y^ 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

NEW  YORK   •    BOSTON   •    CHICAGO 
ATLANTA  -    SAN    FRANCISCO 

MACMILLAN  &  CO.,  Limited 

LONDON  •  BOMBAY  •  CALCUTTA 
MELBOURNE 

THE  MACMILLAN  CO.  OF  CANADA,  Ltd. 

TORONTO 


p  LIBRARY 

5  ^  iJmVERSITY  OF  CALlFORNli^ 

'  -^  ^ '  ^  gANTA  BARBARA 


'^^ 


€0 

GEORGE   B.   McCLELLAN 

WHOSE    EFFORTS    IN    MUNICIPAL    ART    HAVE    IDENTIFIED 

HIM    WITH    THE    NEW   CITY 

THIS    BOOK 

IS  DEDICATED  BY  BOTH  THE  WRITER 

AND  THE  ILLUSTRATOR 


PREFACE 

The  title  of  this  book  describes  it  with  sufficient 
accuracy.  The  new  city  is  pictured  rather  than  the 
old ;  the  present  appearance  is  recited  rather  than  the 
history  of  Dutch  and  English  successions.  This,  of 
course,  implies  limitations,  but  not  necessarily  a  meager 
field  of  survey.  The  difficulty  has  been,  not  the  paucity, 
but  the  prodigality  of  the  materials.  Where  one  should 
begin  has  presented  as  much  of  a  problem  as  where  one 
should  leave  off.  Besides,  in  a  swift-expanding  city  like 
New  York  everything  is  more  or  less  confused  by  move- 
ment, by  casual  phenomena,  by  want  of  definition.  Self- 
imposed  barriers  are  necessary  to  keep  one  from  being 
lost  in  the  vastness  of  the  swirl. 

The  writer  and  the  illustrator  have  not  escaped  the 
embarrassment  of  many  points  of  view,  but  gradually 
the  belief  has  come  to  them  that,  pictorially,  the  larger 
aspect  of  New  York  is  the  life  and  energy  of  its  people 
projected  upon  the  background  of  its  commerce.  It  is 
this  character  of  the  place  and  its  inhabitants  that  they 
have  sought  to  set  forth,  convinced  that  character  is 
interesting  in  itself,  and  that  true  municipal  beauty  must 


viii  PREFACE 

be  more  or  less  beholden  to  it.     Those  who  believe  only 

in  the  planned  and  plotted  city  will,  no  doubt,  shake  their 

heads   over   this;    but   many   times   in   civic    story  the 

characteristic  has  proved  more  attractive  than  the  formal. 

It  has  been  demonstrated  in  the  present  day,  here  in  New 

York.     Those  who  have  erected  the  new  city,  as  need  has 

dictated,   have   builded   better  than   they   knew.     They 

have  given  us,  not  the  classic,  but  the  picturesque  —  a 

later  and  perhaps  a  more  interesting  development. 

At  least  such  is  the  chief  contention  of  this  book.     With 

what  reason  or  conviction  it  is  pictured  or  argued  is  the 

privilege  of  the  reader  to  decide.     Therefore  let  us  leave 

off  explanations  and  begin. 

J.  C.  V.  D. 

New  York,  May,  1909. 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGE 

I.  Introduction 1 

II.  The  Approach  from  the  Sea 21 

III.  Seasonal  Impressions 41 

IV.  The  Streets  in  the  Morning 59 

V.  Down  Town .77 

VI.  Sky-scrapers 93 

Vll.  The  New  City 113 

VIII.  Ancient  Landmarks 131 

IX.  The  Ebb  Tide 149 

X.  Fifth  Avenue  at  Four 169 

XI.  Shops  and  Shopping 187 

XII.  New  York  by  Night 20.5 

XIII.  Homes  and  Houses 221 

XIV.  The  Bowery 237 

XV.  The  Tenement  Dwellers 253 

XVI.  City  Guardians 271 

XVII.  The  Bridges 291 

XVIII.  The  Water-ways 309 

XIX.  Docks  and  Ships       .        .        '. 325 

XX.  Breathing  Spaces 341 

XXI.  Municipal  Art 357 

XXII.  For  Mere  Culture 371 

XXIII.  The  Islands 387 

XXTV.  The  Larger  City 401 

XXV.  Traffic  and  Trade 417 


PLATES   IN   COLOR 


The  Old  and  the  New         .......        Frontispiece 

FACING    PAGE 

I.  Madison  Square 2 

II.  Battery  Park  near  Bowling  Green      .....  22 

III.  Washington  Square      ........  42 

IV.  The  Plaza 60 

V.  Lower  Broadway  —  Election  Time 78 

VI.  Building  a  Sky-scraper 94 

VII.  New  York  Times  Building 114 

VIII.  The  City  Hall  and  World  Building 132 

IX.  Hudson  Park  (Greenwich) 150 

X.  Fifth  Avenue  through  the  Washington  Arch     .         .         .  170 

XI.  Broadway  from  Madison  Square 188 

XII.  Coney  Island  — oil  the  Beach 206 

XIII.  Apartment  Houses,  Upper  Broadway          ....  222 

XIV.  Chinatown 238 

XV.  Bleecker  Street 254 

XVI.     Second  Avenue 272 

XVII.     High  Bridge,  Harlem  River 292 

XVIII.     Near  the  Battery 310 

XIX.     Near  the  Shipping  District 326 

XX.     Morning-side  Park 342 

XXI.     Entrance  Prospect  Park,  Brooklyn 358 

XXII.     University  of  New  York 372 

XXIII.  Governors  Island 388 

XXIV.  Elevated  Road  at  One  Hundred  and  Twenty-Fifth  Street  402 
XXV.     Along  Riverside  Drive 418 


PLATES   IN   BLACK   AND   WHITE 


FACING  PAGE 


1.  Lower  Bay 1 

2.  New  York  from  Upper  Bay 7 

3.  A  Nearer  View 10 

4.  Ferries  and  Sky-scrapers 16 

5.  Coney  Island  from  Bay 24 

6.  Crossing  Ferries 28 

7.  Docks  and  Slips .35 

8.  New  York  Custom  House 37 

9.  The  Flatiron  (Fuller  Building) 44 

10.  New  York  in  Rain  (Park  Avenue) 46 

11.  Fort  Lee  in  Haze 49 

12.  Lower  City  in  Mist 51 

13.  Broadway  —  Down  Town 62 

14.  Broad  Street 64 

15.  Ann  Street 71 

16.  Exchange  Place 74 

17.  Park  Row  Building 85 

18.  City  Investment  and  Singer  Buildings 87 

19.  Terminal  Buildings  from  West  Street 90 

20.  Little  Flatiron  — Maiden  Lane 92 

21.  Sky-scrapers  from  Brooklyn  Heights 99 

22.  Working  at  Night  on  Foundations 103 

23.  Among  the  Tall  Buildings 106 

24.  Post  Office  and  City  Hall  Park 110 

25.  Looking  down  Madison  Avenue 117 

26.  Metropolitan  Museum  and  Eighty-Second  Street        .        .         .  119 

27.  West  Street  Building 122 

28.  Singer  Building  —  Early  Evening       ......  124 

29.  Trinity  Churchyar  ' 135 

xiil 


xiv  PLATES   IN   BLACK   AND   WHITE 

FACING   PAGE 

30.  St.  Paul's  and  Park  Row  Building 1.38 

31.  St.  Paul's  —  Interior 145 

32.  The  Aquarium,  Battery  Park 147 

33.  Post  Office  from  St.  Paul's  Porch 158 

34.  Mott  Street 160 

35.  The  New  Tombs,  Center  Street 163 

36.  Grace  Church,  Broadway 165 

37.  Fifth  Avenue  at  Thirty-Fourth  Street 172 

38.  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  from  Madison  Avenue    ....  174 

39.  Upper  Fifth  Avenue 177 

40.  Fifth  Avenue  from  Metropolitan  Museum 184 

41.  Broadway  near  Tenth  Street 192 

42.  Twenty-Third  Street 199 

43.  Altman's,  Fifth  Avenue 200 

44.  Tiffany's,  Fifth  Avenue 202 

45.  Sherman  Statue  —  Evening 209 

46.  Upper  Broadway  —  Night 215 

47.  Plaza  by  Moonlight 216 

48.  Sherry's  (left)  and  Delmonico's  (right) 218 

49.  Beginning  of  Madison  Avenue 224 

50.  Madison  Avenue  Houses 231 

51.  Fifth  Avenue  Houses 232 

52.  The  Ansonia 234 

63.   The  Bowery 240 

54.  Elevated  Road  on  the  Bowery 247 

55.  Across  the  Bowery  looking  East 248 

56.  Jewish  Cemetery  (near  Bowery)          ......  250 

57.  Tenements  near  Brooklyn  Bridge 261 

58.  East  River  Tenements 263 

59.  Elevated  Road  on  Second  Avenue       ......  266 

60.  Recreation  Pier 268 

61.  Police  Headquarters 275 

62.  Criminal  Court  Building 279 

63.  Bridge  of  Sighs .282 


PLATES   IN   BLACK   AND   WHITE  xv 

FAOINO  PAGE 

64.  Site  of  New  Municipal  Building 286 

65.  Brooklyn  Bridge 295 

66.  Manhattan  Bridge  (in  construction) 298 

67.  East  River  Bridge 305 

68.  Bridges  on  the  Harlem 307 

69.  The  Lower  Hudson  from  Singer  Tower 318 

70.  The  East  River 320 

71.  The  Lower  East  River 323 

72.  The  Harlem 325 

73.  Old  Ships,  South  Street 332 

74.  The  Mauretania 334 

75.  Tugs  and  Steamers 337 

76.  From  Coenties  Slip 341 

77.  Lake  in  the  Central  Park 348 

78.  St.  Nicholas  Avenue 352 

79.  Palisades  and  Hudson 355 

80.  Riverside  Drive  —  Grant's  Tomb 357 

81.  St.  John  the  Divine  (in  construction) 364 

82.  Ward's  Pilgrim,  the  Central  Park 366 

83.  Fountain  on  Riverside  Drive 369 

84.  Soldier's  Monument,  Riverside  Drive 371 

85.  New  York  Botanical  Museum,  Bronx  Park         ....  376 

86.  Public  Library,  Fifth  Avenue 382 

87.  College  of  the  City  of  New  York 384 

88.  Hall  of  Fame,  University  of  New  York 386 

89.  Bedloes  Island  —  Statue  of  Liberty 391 

90.  Island  from  the  Battery 394 

91.  Staten  Island  Factories 396 

92.  East  River  Islands  from  Jeiferson  Park 400 

93.  Fort  George  by  Night 405 

94.  Pennsylvania  Railroad  Station  (in  construction)        .        .         .  407 

95.  East  River  from  Williamsburgh  Bridge 410 

96.  Brooklyn  Bridge  from  Ferry  Shed 412 

97.  West  Street  looking  North 421 

98.  East  River  —  Brooklyn  Side 424 


INTEODUCTION 


Pl.  I.       MADISON    SQUARE 


3^AUQa    MOZIQAM       .1  .,cj 


CHAPTER   I 

INTRODUCTION 

Constantinople,  seen  in  the  early  evening  from  the 
Marmora,  is  perhaps  the  most  beautiful  city  in  the  world. 
It  lifts  from  the  water,  takes  form  from  out  the  opales- 
cent distance,  like  some  vision  of  The  Thousand  and 
One  Nights  Entertainment.  The  yellow  walls  and  towers 
of  old  Byzantium,  the  red-tiled  buildings  that  crowd 
along  the  seven  hills  of  Stamboul,  the  silver-domed 
mosques  of  Achmet,  of  Mohammed,  of  Bajazet,  the  dark 
green  cypresses  in  the  Seraglio  Gardens,  the  restless  water 
at  one's  feet,  the  wonderful  light  that  seems  always 
overhead,  and  the  rosy  air  that  blends  them  all  into 
harmony,  make  up  a  picture  never  to  be  forgotten. 
The  glamour  and  the  romance  of  the  East  become,  for 
the  moment,  realities.  The  realm  of  enchantment  lies 
just  before  you. 

As  the  ship  draws  nearer  and  swings  around  Seraglio 
Point  into  the  Golden  Horn,  new  vistas  of  even  greater 
splendor  open  and  deepen.  The  harbor  with  its  forests 
of  masts,  the  Galata  Bridge  —  the  whole  eastern  side 
of  the  city  —  lie  in  the  shadow  of  the  Stamboul  hills; 
the  domes  of  Sancta  Sophia  lift  against  the  sunset  west, 

3 


4  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

a  violet  light  gathers  about  the  minarets  of  the  mosque 
of  Solymon,  the  rosy  air  turns  into  a  golden  mist,  and 
through  it  the  towers  of  Pera  look  supernaturally  splendid. 
Haroun  al  Raschid,  in  fancy  free,  never  built  a  city  more 
beautiful !  It  is  a  dream  city.  If  you  touch  it,  it  will 
fade  away  and  leave  only  a  grouping  of  harsh  facts. 

But  touch  it  you  must  whether  you  will  or  will  not. 
You  are  disembarked,  sent  ashore,  and,  at  first,  are  de- 
lighted with  the  way  certain  colors  in  shop  fronts,  flags, 
and  costumes  ''cut  out,"  with  the  quaintness  of  rambling 
buildings,  with  the  ships  and  crowds  and  all  the  barbaric 
yawp  of  the  streets.  But  presently  you  begin  to  lose  the 
ensemble.  The  light  and  atmosphere  no  longer  bind 
together.  The  forms  of  buildings  become  grotesque,  the 
streets  grow  squalid,  the  people,  the  dogs,  the  horses,  make 
up  a  mean  and  hideous  entanglement  of  life;  the  noises 
are  deafening,  the  odors  unbearable,  the  filth  untellable. 
Before  the  stars  are  out  you  have  possibly  concluded 
(and  not  without  reason)  that  Constantinople  may  be 
beautiful  at  a  distance,  and  picturesque  in  spots  close 
at  hand ;  but  that  it  certainly  is  not  architectural,  not 
structural,  not  a  homogeneous  civic  unit  like  Paris.  The 
larger  elements  of  design  and  system  are  lacking.  It  is 
something  that  just  ''happened." 

Singularly  enough  there  is  in  New  York  a  superficial 
likeness  to  Constantinople.  Even  the  height  and  location 
of  the  ground  with  the  contours  cut  by  the  rivers  are  not 


INTRODUCTION  5 

dissimilar.  A  glance  at  the  map  will  show  the  Hudson 
corresponding  to  the  Marmora,  the  East  River  to  the 
Golden  Horn,  the  Upper  Bay  to  the  Bosporus.  Other 
resemblances  derive  naturally  from  these.  Manhattan  be- 
comes recognizable  as  Stamboul,  the  Battery  as  Seraglio 
Point,  Brooklyn  as  the  heights  of  Pera,  Staten  Island  as 
Scutari.  Even  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  can  be  tortured  into  a 
resemblance  to  the  Galata  Bridge,  and  the  Williamsburgh 
Bridge  is  an  exaggerated  suggestion  of  the  upper  bridge  on 
the  Golden  Horn. 

The  likeness  carries  on  (fancifully  if  you  will)  into  the 
impression  produced  at  first  sight.  Both  cities  are  seen 
at  their  best  from  the  water;  both  are  beautiful  from  a 
distance  and  for  a  similar  reason.  Light  and  color 
gleaming  from  towers  and  spires  and  pinnacles,  a  fore- 
ground of  water,  a  background  of  blue  sky,  a  rosy-blue 
envelope  of  air,  make  up  the  attractive  quality  of  each. 
The  white  sky-scraper  of  New  York,  that  thoughtless 
people  jeer  at,  catches  light  as  readily  as  a  Moslem  mina- 
ret; the  solid  ''blocks"  standing  shoulder  to  shoulder 
along  the  streets,  the  bunched  group  of  high  buildings  in 
the  lower  city,  make  up  walls  more  massive  than  those 
of  Stamboul ;  and  if  New  York  lacks  the  silvery  domes 
of  Constantinople,  it  is  not  without  its  tall  towers  flying 
flags  against  the  blue,  and  such  graceful  traceries  in  the 
air  as  the  Brooklyn  and  Manhattan  bridges. 

Seen  from  a  point  in  the  Upper  Bay  where  the  Brooklyn 


6  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

Bridge  first  comes  into  view  and  the  sky-scrapers  in  the 
lower  city  crowd  together  like  distant  mountain  peaks, 
New  York  is  more  striking,  more  impressive,  than  any  other 
city  on  the  globe.  It  looms  through  the  blue  mist,  not 
with  any  Oriental  romance  about  it,  but  with  a  feeling  of 
tremendous  bulk  and  power.  The  mass  of  it  makes  you 
reaHze  the  energy  back  of  it,  excites  a  wonder  as  to  its 
fashioning,  overawes  you  with  its  possibilities.  There  is 
no  mystery  here.  New  York  is  not  a  dream  city.  It  is 
as  real  as  the  mountain  walls  of  the  Alps,  as  apparent  as 
the  white  shaft  of  the  Matterhorn,  but  picturesque  in  a 
similar  way  and  for  a  similar  reason.  The  Alpine  lift 
of  it,  the  clear  light  of  it,  the  brilliant  color,  the  serene 
sky,  the  enveloping  air,  are  peculiarly  beautiful. 

But  as  you  come  closer  to  the  city,  the  measurable 
likeness  to  Constantinople  returns  to  you.  The  illusion 
produced  by  distance  begins  to  fade.  Color  once  more ' '  cuts 
out"  in  sharp  patches,  the  tall  buildings  lose  their  grouping 
and  assume  tower-like  isolation ;  the  light  becomes  more 
fierce,  the  shadows  more  violent.  The  picture  gets  out  of 
tone,  out  of  value.  The  contrasts  appear  so  sharp,  the 
transitions  so  swift,  that  you  are  perhaps  bewildered.  The 
grotesque  and  the  grandiose,  the  savage  and  the  civilized, 
the  luxurious  and  the  poverty-stricken,  touch  on  every 
side. 

Once  in  the  streets  all  thought  of  a  united  and  harmoni- 
ous   picture    vanishes    into    thin    air.     Jostling    details. 


INTRODUCTION  7 

harsh  reaHties,  are  flung  at  you  too  violently  to  be  merged 
into  an  ensemble.  The  picturesque  still  crops  out  in 
spots  and  patches  at  every  turn,  but  it  requires  some  men- 
tal (and  physical)  firmness  to  stop  and  enjoy  it.  There  is 
a  great  movement  going  on  about  you,  a  surge  of  struggling 
humanity;  and  there  is  a  great  roar,  the  metallic-electric 
hum  of  power  in  action.  If  you  are  a  stranger  within  the 
gates  perhaps  this  means  chaos  to  you,  sheer  mob  mad- 
ness ;  and  possibly  before  nightfall  you  will  have  concluded 
that  Manhattan,  like  Constantinople,  is  lacking  in  homoge- 
neity, wholly  wanting  in  structural  unity,  in  fact  a  mere 
agglomeration  of  buildings  on  a  point  of  land.  The  check- 
erboard '^ blocks,"  the  recurrent  regularity  of  streets,  you 
admit,  point  to  something  planned ;  but  the  buildings  are 
eruptive  and  the  whole  city  abnormal  —  something  again 
that  apparently  just  '' happened." 

There  is  an  explanation,  if  not  an  excuse,  for  this. 
The  city  belongs  to  a  republic,  a  great  democracy.  It  is 
very  apparent  in  New  York  that  every  one  stands  firmly 
on  his  rights  as  an  individual,  and  does  about  as  he  pleases. 
Architectural  conformity  to  a  general  design  is  something 
not  required,  not  planned,  not  even  contemplated.  Quite 
the  reverse.  If  your  neighbor  does  a  thing  one  way,  it  is 
considered  a  proper  assertion  of  your  rights  to  do  it  the 
other  way.  If  an  office  building  soars  twenty  stories  into 
the  air,  a  bank  building  near  it  will  more  than  likely  stop  at 
a  story  and  a  half.     If  one  lifts  upward  in  terra-cotta,  the 


8  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

other  will  flatten  out  in  white  marble.  After  thirty  years 
of  brick  and  stone  fronts  in  monotonous  row,  block  upon 
block,  a  great  change  has  come  over  the  spirit  of  the  dream 
and  now,  in  the  new  buildings,  the  other  extreme  is  sought. 
Nothing  shall  be  like  anything  else,  nothing  shall  conform 
except  by  the  law  of  contrariety.  In  materials  brick  shall 
meet  granite,  and  granite  shall  join  to  steel,  and  steel  be  fol- 
lowed by  marble  or  terra-cotta  or  concrete ;  but  two  of  a 
kind  shall  not  stand  side  by  side.  And  never  by  design 
or  acquiescence  shall  adjoining  buildings  be  of  the  same 
color.  Even  in  brick  there  is  forever  the  slight  difference 
in  coloring,  caused  by  the  different  clay,  the  firing,  or  the 
pigmentation,  that  marks  apart  one's  building  from  his 
neighbor's  and  thus  asserts  an  individuality. 

The  assertion  of  the  individual  is  possibly  the  cause  of 
the  city's  architectural  incongruities.  Everyone  seems 
struggling  as  hard  as  he  can  to  keep  from  losing  himself 
in  the  body  corporate.  There  are  very  few  who  wish  to 
be  simply  citizens,  to  conform  to  civic  laws,  and  to  temper 
architectural  aspirations  to  a  sky  line  or  a  curb  line.  The 
average  New  York  business  man  wants  no  self-effacement, 
no  simple  life.  On  the  contrary,  publicity,  commercially 
and  socially,  is  sought  for;  and  being  ^'in  the  pubHc 
eye,"  as  the  phrase  goes,  seems  to  be  the  one  thing  needful. 
The  buildings  of  the  new  city  are  more  or  less  reflective 
of  this  obtrusive  individuality.  The  love  of  prominence 
has  produced  homes  and  stores  and  sky-scrapers  that  are,  if 


INTRODUCTION  9 

convenient  and  useful,  not  the  less  blatant  advertisements 
of  their  owners'  families  or  businesses.  What  other 
object  could  induce  an  individual,  or  an  aggregation  of 
individuals,  to  build  a  silverware  shop  that  suggests  an 
overgrown  Venetian  palace,  or  apartment  houses,  French, 
Italian,  Greek,  Moorish,  Turkish,  in  their  ornamentation, 
or  hotels  after  almost  any  and  every  plan  on  the  footstool 
that  is  unique  or  striking?  What  is  the  meaning  of  the 
keen  rivalry  among  the  owners  of  the  high  buildings  as  to 
which  shall  be  the  highest,  and  the  vaporizings  in  the 
newspapers  about  which  has  the  greatest  number  of  occu- 
pants? Half  of  the  ''freak"  buildings  in  New  York  are 
not  well-meant  architectural  failures,  but  deliberate  efforts 
to  catch  the  eye  and  advertise  someone  or  his  wares. 
Even  the  creditable  buildings  —  substantial  structures 
that  are  not  to  be  despised  as  art  and  cannot  be  regarded 
wholly  as  advertisements  —  reflect,  in  measure,  the  de- 
sire for  distinction,  for  aloofness,  for  novelty.  How 
otherwise  can  we  understand  a  Greek  temple  worked  over 
and  made  to  do  service  as  a  stock-exchange,  or  a  Roman 
arch  adapted  to  meet  the  requirements  of  a  clearing-house, 
or  a  sixteenth-century  Veronese  council  hall  exaggerated 
into  a  printing-shop?  The  desire  for  singularity  is  quite 
as  pronounced  in  dwelling  houses.  French  chateaux  that 
are  meaningless  without  their  landscapes,  Dutch  houses 
that  need  water  as  a  complement,  Swiss  chalets  that 
belong  in  the  Alps,  and  Palladian  conglomerations  that 


10  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

perhaps  once  belonged  in  Italy,  measure  up  to  a  common 
curb  and  look  down  into  the  same  asphalt  street  with  the 
brown-stone  front  of  yore.  Evidently  these  people  pro- 
pose to  have  nothing  monotonous  or  conventional,  cost 
what  it  may;  and  though  they  imitate  the  dead  and 
gone  of  England  or  Spain,  they  will  not  copy  their  next- 
door  neighbors. 

This  cry  of  the  individual  in  brick  and  stone  and  steel, 
this  strain  for  novelty  or  peculiarity  or  mere  ''loudness," 
produces  variety  enough  in  all  conscience.  And  it  also 
produces  picturesqueness,  but  one  can  hardly  claim  for  it 
unity.  There  is  a  want  of  coherence,  of  ensemble.  No 
amount  of  civic  pride  can  find  excuse  for  the  inconsisten- 
cies that  crop  out  at  every  point,  and  it  is  impossible  to 
be  in  sympathy  with  the  stupidities  and  inanities  per- 
petrated by  the  semi-civilized  that  flock  into  New  York 
and  by  mere  numbers  give  a  savage  tang  to  the  city.  In 
fact,  the  savagery  of  New  York  is  at  first  more  marked 
than  its  civilization,  its  vices  more  pronounced  than  its 
virtues.  Wherever  one  goes  he  finds  these  sharply  con- 
trasted. What  else  could  be  expected  !  A  million  people 
with  a  million  tastes  and  perfect  freedom  to  express  them 
as  they  please,  a  chorus  where  each  member  is  allowed  to 
sing  his  own  tune  in  his  own  way,  mean  necessarily  a 
want  of  harmony.  New  York  is  not  a  harmonious  sym- 
metrical city  like  Paris,  and  the  fact  is  generally  conceded 
by  New  Yorkers  themselves. 


'0.^^^'^ . 


J^ 


m  '     -ii    ,'''  lla  M  -A' 


K 


INTRODUCTION  11 

Nor  is  it  a  restful  city.  Aside  from  the  noise  of  it, 
the  very  sight  of  it  keeps  you  ever  on  the  alert.  The  long 
avenues  of  Paris  dwindling  away  in  linear  perspective, 
the  roof  lines  as  unbroken  as  the  curb  lines,  might  put  you 
to  sleep  with  their  undisturbed  repose.  The  sameness 
of  Madrid  or  the  uniformity  of  new  Rome,  or  the  cast-iron 
dullness  of  Berlin  are  likewise  conducive  to  somnolence. 
But  when  you  drive  through  New  York  you  have  to  look 
about  you.  Its  variety  is  startling,  disturbing,  even 
shocking  at  times.  It  is  a  city  quite  by  itself,  a  city  of 
contrasts,  with  as  little  rest  in  its  sky  line  as  in  the  ragged 
mountains  of  Mexico,  as  little  repose  in  its  streets  as  in  the 
lava  stream  of  a  volcano.  Oh,  to  be  sure,  there  are  quiet 
spots  in  the  parks  and  along  the  rivers,  quaint  nooks  in 
the  side  streets,  odd  angles  here  and  there  where  every- 
thing is  so  still  it  is  difficult  to  realize  that  you  are  in  New 
York  at  all.  Everyone  knows  these  spots,  with  their  door- 
ways and  garden  walls  and  overhanging  trees,  for  the 
magazine  writer  has  written  about  them  and  the  painter 
has  illustrated  them  many  times;  but  they  are  merely 
surface  spots,  —  the  exceptions,  not  the  rule.  The  place 
is  no  quieter  than  its  loudest  note,  no  more  restful  than 
the  inside  of  its  stock-exchange,  no  more  reposeful  than 
the  reach  of  its  most  aggressive  sky-scraper. 

And  hence,  it  is  said,  the  city  is  an  unlivable  place; 
a  great  shop  in  which  people  barter  and  sell,  get  rich  quick 
and  die  early,  but  cannot  rationally  live  and  have  their 


12  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

being.  Perhaps  there  is  truth  in  that  statement,  as  we 
shall  see  hereafter,  and  yet  several  millions  of  people  who 
are  now  existent  within  the  city,  and  unknown  millions 
without  who  wish  they  could  arrange  to  live  within,  would 
seem  to  confute  it.  They  live  somehow  and  have  the 
appearance  of  enjoying  life,  though  it  may  be  they  never 
arrive  at  the  fullness  of  being  vouchsafed  to  people  in 
staid  London  or  methodical  Berlin. 

Perhaps  a  general  statement  that  no  city  is  quite  as 
healthful  and  rational  a  place  to  live  in  as  the  country 
would  be  nearer  the  truth.  The  herding  together  of 
people  in  great  centers,  the  incessant  milling  that  goes 
on  in  the  streets,  the  continual  rubbing  of  minds  and 
touching  of  hands,  with  one  man's  elbow  in  another  man's 
ribs,  and  his  toe  forever  galling  his  neighbor's  kibe,  are 
things  that  never  yet  led  to  the  development  of  the 
virtues.  They  breed  selfishness  and  all  its  allied  train 
of  evils,  and  they  tend  necessarily  to  the  lawless  assertion 
of  the  individual,  which  in  turn  produces  that  want  of 
harmony  which  we  have  already  noted.  It  might  be 
better  morally  and  physically  for  families  to  live  farther 
apart  and  see  each  other  less  frequently.  But  evidently 
they  do  not  think  so.  They  answer  the  academic  ques- 
tion as  to  which  is  preferable,  city  or  country,  by  moving 
into  the  cities  —  at  least  a  great  many  do. 

And  the  flocking  into  New  York  is  greater  than  into 
any  other  American  metropolis.     It  draws  like  a  load- 


INTRODUCTION  13 

stone  not  only  from  our  own  interior  states,  but  from 
foreign  countries.  Its  increase  from  witliout  when  seen 
in  statistics  is  something  remarkable.  And  each  year 
gives  a  higher  figure.  Why  is  this  ?  Why  do  they  come  ? 
Why  do  they  not  stay  where  they  are  or  go  to  some  other 
place  ?  Obviously  because  they  find  New  York  attractive, 
entertaining,  amusing,  perhaps  improving. 

Does  the  city  then  respond  to  Matthew  Arnold's  test 
of  a  civilization:  ''Is  it  interesting?"  Most  assuredly. 
It  is  the  most  interesting  place  in  the  New  World,  and 
that  is  the  chief  reason,  aside  from  business  relations, 
why  people  keep  trooping  to  it  from  all  points  of  the  com- 
pass. There  is  ''something  to  see  there"  is  the  way  the 
response  comes  to  you.  Naturally  it  depends  upon  each 
individual  what  he  sees  and  if  it  interests  him.  Some 
are  content  with  seeing  streets  and  shop  windows;  some 
seek  the  charm  of  the  Central  Park ;  some  are  amused  by 
monuments,  museums,  and  theaters;  some  are  delighted 
with  the  Stock  Exchange,  the  Subway,  the  Bowery,  or 
the  Battery.  Thousands  are  interested  in  fires,  parades, 
slums,  and  police ;  and  thousands  again  are  devoted  only 
to  art,  music,  literature,  or  the  sciences. 

But  the  omnipresent  interest  of  New  York  —  to  New 
Yorkers  themselves  as  well  as  outsiders  —  is  the  passing 
throng,  the  great  flux,  the  moving  mass  of  people  on  the 
streets.  It  may  be  an  outcrop  of  the  social  instinct  or 
merely  a  vagabond    curiosity,  but    almost   everyone   is 


14  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

ready  to  crane  his  neck  to  watch  the  mob  as  it  passes. 
The  interest  is  usually  of  a  superficial  nature.  We  may 
be  looking  only  at  heads  and  faces,  at  strides  and  strad- 
dles, at  fools  and  fashions;  but  still  we  look.  Nor  is 
this  interest  confined  to  any  one  class  or  quarter  of  the 
city.  The  man  who  watches  the  people  hurrying  along 
Fifth  Avenue  from  his  club  window,  or  the  woman  who 
scans  them  through  a  lorgnette  from  the  window  of  her 
brougham,  are,  in  this  respect  at  least,  akin  to  the  tene- 
ment house  family  that  watches  the  crowd  from  a  fire- 
escape,  or  to  the  scullery  maid  who  hangs  half  her  person 
out  of  the  back  window  to  see  the  tops  of  people's  hats. 
The  human  interest  is  always  absorbing. 

What  causes  this  never-ending  ebb  and  flow  of  human 
currents  up  and  down  the  avenues  and  through  the  cross 
streets?  Whence  comes  this  uneasy  energy  so  manifest 
in  New  York  life?  What  is  the  initial  force  that  sends 
wave  after  wave  of  humanity  hither  and  yon  each  morn- 
ing and  evening,  and  makes  of  New  York  a  city  of  almost 
perpetual  movement?  Undoubtedly  the  motive  power 
comes  from  commerce,  trade,  traffic, — what  is  commonly 
called  ''business."  The  energy  is  generated  by  wealth, 
its  pursuit  or  its  expenditure.  And  the  wealth  is  here 
in  New  York  more  than  in  any  other  American  city. 
It  has  not  all  been  created  here  by  any  means.  In  fact, 
it  represents  the  industry  of  almost  every  state  in  the 
union.      Generally    speaking    the    source    of   power   lies 


INTRODUCTION  15 

without,  in  the  surrounding  country,  in  the  productive 
Far  West  perhaps ;  but  the  central  dynamos  are  in  New 
York.  It  is  the  power  house  by  the  sea  where  the  energy 
is  stored,  and  from  which  in  turn  energy  is  suppHed. 

There  will  be  those  to  rise  up  with  indignant  protest 
that  there  are  other  things  in  New  York  than  trade  and 
commerce.  Quite  true.  The  leaders  in  art,  literature, 
music,  and  the  drama,  the  great  ones  in  law  and  medicine, 
the  famous  preachers,  the  celebrities  in  science,  in  en- 
gineering, in  philanthropy,  in  political  life,  have  their 
headquarters  if  not  always  their  residences  here.  In 
addition  the  city  is  stocked  to  overflowing  with  schools, 
colleges,  universities,  societies,  clubs,  charity  organiza- 
tions, hospitals,  lecture  halls,  museums,  art  galleries  — 
all  the  appurtenances  and  appliances  of  the  higher  and 
the  intellectual  life.  But  the  sky-scraper  of  commerce 
looms  above  the  university  and  the  art  gallery  on  the 
horizon  line  of  the  city;  and  the  master  builder  of  the 
sky-scraper,  the  so-called  captain  of  industry,  seems  to 
fill  the  most  conspicuous  place  in  the  interest  and  affec- 
tions of  the  city's  people.  For  all  its  facilities  and  its 
acquisitions  of  a  purely  intellectual  or  educational  nature 
—  and  we  shall  recount  them  hereafter  —  the  key-note 
of  the  city  is  taken  from  its  commerce.  The  enormous 
buildings,  the  roar  of  traffic  in  the  streets,  the  babel  of 
tongues,  the  glare  of  lights,  the  strident  screech  of  car 
wheels,  speak  the  business  character  of  the  city  as  the 


16  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

hum  of  a  top  its  spinning  motion.  If  there  is  one  feature 
of  the  city  predominant  above  all  others  it  is  its  life, 
its  vitality,  its  tremendous  energy  kept  forever  in  action 
by  commerce. 

A  material  feature?  Yes,  but  it  calls  for  no  apology. 
All  the  famed  towns  of  Europe  —  Florence,  Venice, 
Vienna,  Paris,  London  —  came  to  greatness  through 
their  wealth  and  commerce.  Their  streets  and  parks 
and  plazas,  their  public  buildings  and  cathedrals  and 
campaniles  which  we  to-day  call  ''beautiful,"  were  in 
their  time  merely  the  manifestation  of  energy  as  applied 
to  material  needs.  And  they  were  beautiful  largely 
because  they  were  well  fitted  to  their  time  and  people. 
Fitness  to  a  designed  end  is  always  admirable,  just  as 
admirable  in  a  modern  battleship  or  sky-scraper  as  in 
a  Venetian  barca  or  a  mediaeval  bell-tower.  For  where- 
ever  or  whenever  the  work  is  perfectly  adapted  to  use 
it  takes  upon  itself  character;  and  it  is  no  new  theory 
under  the  sun  that  beauty  lies  in  character  perhaps  more 
often  than  in  proportion,   symmetry,  or  grace. 

Why  not  then  beauty  in  the  city  of  New  York?  Is 
not  everything  in  it  well  fitted  (or  rapidly  becoming 
so  at  least)  to  fulfill  its  functions  as  a  great  seaport,  a 
commercial  center,  a  nation's  metropolis?  Has  it  not 
already  a  distinct,  a  decisive  character  of  its  own?  Of 
course  it  will  never  become  beautiful  in  a  Florentine  or 
even    a    Parisian    sense.     Those    ideals    of   fitness    have 


Pl.  4.  —  Fekriks  and  Sky-scrapers 


INTRODUCTION  17 

passed,  and  the  likeness  will  not  be  repeated  in  this 
western  world.  Why  should  we  follow  outworn  prece- 
dents? What  would  you  have  in  twentieth-century 
New  York,  —  city  walls  affording  no  protection  to  the  city, 
lofty  campanili  with  bell-ringing  obsolescent,  quaint 
bridges  for  a  few  hundred  foot-passengers,  instead  of  great 
structures  to  accommodate  hundreds  of  thousands? 
This  new  civilization  calls  for  a  different  expression  in 
art  from  that.  It  calls  for  the  things  that  reveal  our 
western  life  and  its  energy.  If  we  build  for  our  present- 
day  needs  with  honesty  and  sincerity,  we  shall  have  no 
cause  to  blush. 

This,  however,  to  the  average  man,  in  or  out  of  New 
York,  is  a  somewhat  violent  conclusion.  He  blushes 
unconsciously  and  offers  apologies  profusely  for  the 
sky-scrapers,  the  tunnels,  the  bridges,  the  subways. 
But  there  is  no  good  reason  for  his  doing  so.  They  are 
necessities  of  the  city's  life,  they  work  perfectly,  fulfilling 
each  its  aim  and  purpose,  each  helping  on  the  other  like 
the  wheels  of  a  great  machine  in  motion.  And  after  their 
kind  they  are  every  one  of  them  right,  characteristic, 
and  beautiful.     Their  fitness  makes  them  so. 

But  how  very  difficult  it  is  to  make  the  New  Yorker 
believe  that  utility  is  the  basis  of  beauty.  He  keeps 
harking  back  to  Venetian  buildings  and  bridges,  think- 
ing perhaps  because  they  are  now  picturesque  they  never 

« 

could  have  been  useful.     ''Will  New  York  ever  become 


18  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

like  that?"  he  asks.  No;  it  certainly  will  not.  But 
in  its  own  way  it  is  just  as  beautiful,  just  as  picturesque 
at  the  present  time,  as  London  or  Paris  or  any  other 
European  city. 

Unfortunately,  though  we  have  eyes,  the  majority  of  us 
see  very  little  with  them.  Not  one  in  a  hundred  of  its 
citizens  has  ever  seen  New  York.  It  is  too  near.  There 
is  no  perspective,  no  proper  focus.  Even  our  painter 
people  are  a  little  bewUdered  by  its  ''bigness."  They 
do  scraps  of  color,  odd  bits  along  the  Harlem,  a  city 
square  or  street;  but,  with  a  few  exceptions,  they  have 
not  risen  to  the  vast  new  city.  That  the  ''big"  things, 
the  high  bridges,  the  colossal  sky-scrapers,  the  huge 
factories,  the  enormous  waterways,  are  pictorial  in  them- 
selves needs  no  wordy  argument.  The  illustrations  in 
this  volume  are  sufficient  proof.  In  them  Mr.  Pennell 
has  shown  that  the  material  is  here  and  that  it  needs 
only  the  properly-adjusted  eyes  to  see  its  beauty.  That 
beauty,  in  the  original  as  in  the  pictures,  is  not  a  harmony 
of  streets,  squares,  and  houses,  nor  a  formal  arrange- 
ment of  monuments,  towers,  and  domes ;  but  rather  a  new 
sublimity  that  lies  in  majesty  of  mass,  in  aspiring  lines 
against  the  upper  sky,  in  the  brilliancy  of  color,  in  the 
mystery  of  fields  of  shadow,  in  the  splendor  of  fields  of 
light,  —  above  all  in  the  suggested  power  and  energy 
of  New  York  life. 

This  is  all  uniquely  western,  if  you  please,  and  those 


INTRODUCTION  19 

who  visit  us  from  Europe  rather  smile  at  it  as  men  have 
done  at  all  new  things  from  time  immemorial;  but  at 
least  they  come  to  see  the  new  city  and  some  day  they 
may  remain  to  praise  it.  One  thing  is  certain,  it  cannot 
be  ignored.     It  has  too  much  character  for  that. 


THE   APPROACH   FROM   THE    SEA 


Pl.  II.  — battery  park  near  bowling  green 


Vl339\u    OHlJWOa    yiA3\'\    >iMA'^    Y5^3TTAa-    .11   .J*! 


CHAPTER  II 

THE   APPROACH  FROM  THE  SEA 

After  the  rain  and  fog  of  London,  after  six  or  seven 
days  of  knocking  about  on  an  ocean  liner  in  wet  Septem- 
ber weather,  how  welcome  to  the  homeward-bound 
traveller  is  the  glimpse  of  American  sunlight  that  perhaps 
comes  to  him  off  Nantucket.  It  is  not  European  sun- 
light. It  seems  brighter,  more  sparkling,  more  luminous. 
The  sky,  too,  is  higher,  arches  into  a  loftier  dome,  shows 
a  finer,  paler  quality  of  blue;  while  the  clouds  are  dif- 
ferent from  any  seen  north  of  the  Alps.  In  the  late 
afternoon  great  heaps  of  cumulus  lift  in  pink  turrets 
and  towers  along  the  southern  horizon,  thin  veils  of 
stratus  are  drawn  across  their  sunlit  tops,  and  high  above 
them,  white  as  snow,  gleam  the  feathery  forms  of  the 
cirrus.  It  seems  a  fairy  cloudland  illuminated  by  a 
silver  sun. 

The  first  exclamation  of  the  stranger  in  America  is 
over  the  sunlight  and  the  sky.  New  York  is  a  thousand 
miles  south,  two  thousand  miles  west,  of  London,  and 
its  light  has  a  clean  clear  quality  about  it  that  is  im- 
pressive. But  no  one  exclaims  over  the  first  glimpse  of 
American   land.     The   ship's   company  looks   at  it  list- 

23 


24  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

lessly,  for  it  is  only  a  flat  strip  of  dull  yellow,  lying  low 
down  upon  the  water  to  the  north,  with  occasionally  a 
dimly  seen  lighthouse  rising  from  it.  Almost  any  land 
in  the  world  —  England,  France,  Spain,  Mexico,  Peru  — 
lifts  out  of  the  sea  with  a  more  commanding  relief  than 
America  at  the  approach  to  New  York  Bay.  The  cliffs 
of  Cornwall  or  the  Pillars  of  Hercules  one  can  grow 
enthusiastic  over;  but  the  sand  spits  of  Long  Island  or 
New  Jersey  make  no  impression  —  except,  of  course, 
upon  the  returning  native. 

Even  the  hills  of  Navesink  and  Sandy  Hook,  with  its 
smartly  painted  buildings,  are  somehow  passed  by  in 
silence.  No  one  comments  or  grows  emotional  over 
them.  But  when  Swinburne  and  Hoffman  islands 
and  the  shores  of  Staten  Island  rise  into  prominence, 
there  is  a  visible  interest  stirred  throughout  the  ship. 
The  pent-up  steerage  crowds  against  the  rail  and  chatters 
excitedly;  and  even  the  complacent  first-cabin  ventures 
a  few  remarks  on  the  green  grass,  the  bright-colored 
houses,  the  warm  sky. 

As  the  ship  moves  up  into  the  Narrows,  passing  in 
the  distance  the  white  towers  of  Coney  Island  and 
close  at  hand  the  green  and  gray  of  Fort  Tompkins  and 
Fort  Hamilton,  the  interest  spreads.  The  rails  above 
and  below  are  manned  with  peering  people.  The  houses, 
the  gardens,  the  trees,  the  flowers  of  Staten  Island  are 
almost  within  stone-throwing  distance ;  and  they  all  look 


THE  APPROACH  FROM  THE  SEA       25 

so  preternaturally  bright  and  beautiful  that  many 
adjectives  are  forthcoming.  Even  the  not-too-observant 
foreigner  begins  to  notice  the  sparkle  of  light  on 
the  water,  the  clearness  of  the  air,  the  variety  of  the 
foliage,  the  gayety  of  the  coloring. 

Presently  the  vibration  of  the  vessel  ceases,  but  the 
ship  still  moves  with  her  own  impetus  slowly  up  into  the 
quarantine  grounds.  Tugs  and  yachts  and  small  boats 
.  gather  about  her,  like  fisher  folk  around  a  stranded 
whale ;  but  they  do  not  try  to  board  her.  The  tug  coming 
out  from  the  shore  flying  a  yellow  flag  carries  the  health 
officer  of  the  port ;  and  he  must  make  his  inspection 
before  any  one  is  allowed  to  go  on  board.  Once  more  the 
port  rail  is  crowded  with  heads  protruding  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  the  great  man  coming  up  the  ship's  ladder. 
How  very  small  he  looks  and  what  a  long  way  down  he 
is !  The  monster  proportions  of  the  ship  tend  to  dwarf 
everything  about  her  —  people  and  tugs,  trees  and  houses, 
hills  on  the  shore  and  distances  on  the  water.  From  the 
thin  air  and  the  clear  light  one  is  led  to  believe  that  a 
conversation  could  be  carried  on  with  the  people  on  the 
Staten  Island  shore;  but  they  are  something  over  half 
a  mile  away.  And  from  the  name  ''The  Narrows," 
given  to  the  strait  through  which  the  ship  has  just  come, 
one  might  gather  the  impression  that  it  is  really  a  narrow 
strip  of  water,  whereas  it  is  a  mile  wide. 

The  medical  inspection  is  soon  through  with,  people 


26  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

from  tugs  and  yachts  and  steamboats  begin  to  climb  up 
the  vessel's  side,  sending  and  receiving  shouts  of  recog- 
nition from  expectant  friends.  Perhaps  an  excursion 
steamer  comes  hurrying  down  the  bay  with  a  band  of 
music,  flying  flags,  and  several  hundred  cheering  throats 
to  welcome  home  some  congressman  or  senator  whose 
greatness  the  ship's  company  had  not  suspected  until 
now.  Once  more  the  ship  gets  under  way  and  steams 
into  the  Upper  Bay.  Everybody  is  now  on  the  alert. 
The  shores  are  beginning  to  show  many  docks,  factories, 
warehouses,  elevators,  all  the  queer  buildings  to  be 
found  about  the  entrance  of  a  great  harbor;  the  Statue 
of  Liberty  on  Bedloe's  Island  rises  in  huge  proportions ; 
and  presently  there  is  a  hum  that  runs  along  the  ship 
and  all  eyes  are  set  and  staring  dead  ahead,  up  the  bay. 
Slowly,  as  the  vessel  turns  on  her  course,  the  towering 
sky-scrapers  of  lower  New  York,  and  the  spider-web 
tracery  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  come  into  view.  Faint 
and  far  the  city  lies,  like  a  distant  sierra.  Nothing  is 
distinct  as  yet.  It  is  only  a  suggestion,  but,  like  Mont 
Blanc  seen  from  Geneva,  what  a  sense  of  height  it  gives 
one !  It  is  not  a  city  on  a  hill  gaining  grandeur  from  its 
elevated  position;  on  the  contrary  it  rises  almost  sheer 
from  the  water's  edge,  —  almost  like  Venice  from  her 
lagoon  islands.  No  one  who  has  come  up  to  Venice  by 
water  in  the  evening  light  is  likely  to  forget  the  loveliness 
of  that  city  by  the  sea  with  its  fairy  palaces  lifting  out 


THE  APPROACH   FROM  THE  SEA  27 

of  the  blue-green  tide,  its  high  silver  domes  of  the  Salute, 
its  lofty  campanili,  its  wondrous  color.  It  is  one  of  the 
sights  of  the  world.  But  New  York  is  all  dome,  all 
campanile,  all  towering  splendor  as  you  see  it  from  the 
Upper  Bay;  and  it  has  an  even  greater  wealth  of  color 
than  Venice,  a  sharper  light,  a  more  luminous  shadow. 
It  will  not  stand  close  analysis  so  well  as  the  City  of  the 
Doges;  but  at  a  distance  it  is  superbly  picturesque, 
grandly  beautiful. 

With  this  far  city  in  view  and  the  mind  groping  at  its 
proportions,  trying  to  imagine  its  height  and  girth,  the 
steamer,  once  more,  begins  to  look  small;  the  Statue 
of  Liberty  seems  rather  like  an  ordinary  statue;  even 
the  Upper  Bay  after  the  open  ocean,  seems  cramped, 
shut  in.  The  stranger  does  not  quite  understand  it. 
He  has  to  be  told  over  again  that  the  statue  on  the  island 
stands  a  hundred  and  fifty  feet  above  its  pedestal,  being 
the  largest  (and  about  the  worst)  of  its  kind  in  the 
world;  that  the  Upper  Bay  is  five  miles  wide  by  five 
or  six  long,  that  the  ship  has  been  travelling  a  dozen 
miles  through  land-locked '  waters,  and  that  New  York 
in  the  distance  is  still  some  miles  away.  Figures  are 
frequently  wearisome,  if  not  something  of  a  nuisance; 
but  they  are,  nevertheless,  quite  convincing  to  the  scepti- 
cal, and  absolutely  indispensable  to  the  exotic  American. 

Gowanus  Bay  and  the  lower  end  of  Brooklyn,  Bayonne 
and  the  lower  end  of  Jersey  City,  are  passed  quite  un- 


28  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

noticed  by  the  passengers.  Things  of  a  more  immediate 
interest  are  claiming  the  attention.  Outward-bound 
steamers  are  passing  with  flags  flying  and  handker- 
chiefs waving,  huge  full-rigged  ships,  riding  high  out  of 
water,  are  being  towed  down  and  out  to  sea,  barks  and 
brigs  and  coasting  schooners  are  following  after,  and 
lumbering  in  the  rear  come  spiteful  little  tugs  wrenching 
at  long  rows  of  garbage  scows,  or  hustling  along  oil 
lighters,  or  snorting  about  dredgers  or  elevator  boats. 
Everything  whistles  at  you  as  it  passes,  by  way  of  salu- 
tation; and  perhaps  the  white  yacht  that  is  along-side 
escorting  the  steamer  up  to  her  dock,  gives  a  sharp  shriek 
in  return.  Meantime  the  distant  city  grows  in  size, 
lifts  higher,  seems  to  peer  through  its  blue  atmosphere ; 
while  over  it,  over  the  harbor  and  over  the  bay,  the  clear 
September  sunlight  is  falling,  dancing,  flashing  from 
dome  and  lofty  window  and  wave  facet,  wringing  color 
out  of  every  ferry-boat,  tug,  building,  greensward,  and 
scrap  of  foliage  within  the  great  panorama. 

When  Governor's  Island,  with  its  round  little  fort, 
and  the  Battery,  with  its  charming  spot  of  green,  are 
reached,  some  of  the  details  of  the  tall  buildings  begin  to 
reveal  themselves.  The  outliers  facing  on  Battery  Park 
can  be  seen  from  foundation  wall  to  roof  line,  and  counted, 
in  twenty  or  more  stories,  by  the  mounting  windows. 
But  these  are  only  the  foot-hills.  Further  back  and 
lifting  higher  are  the   central  peaks,   the  main  sierras. 


fa 


o 


THE  APPROACH   FROM  THE  SEA  29 

The  architectural  wonders  of  the  world  seem  insignifi- 
cant when  measured  by  their  scale.  The  sky  line  of 
London,  for  instance,  is  cut  by  church  domes  and 
steeples  that  look  down  on  the  low-lying  town;  but 
the  highest  church  steeple  here  is  that  of  Old  Trinity, 
two  hundred  and  eighty-four  feet  in  height,  which  fails 
to  rise  into  sight.  It  is  submerged  by  its  surroundings, 
with  the  Singer  Tower  in  the  lead  six  hundred  and 
thirty-five  feet  up  in  the  air.  Such  structures  are  appro- 
priately enough  called  '^  sky-scrapers."  The  tops  of  them 
reach  into  the  blue,  cut  into  it,  seem  to  ''scrape" 
against  it.  Almost  everyone  is  impressed  or  startled  or 
outraged  by  the  first  sight  of  them.  Even  the  visiting 
foreigner  finds  his  lively  expectation  outdone  by  the 
reality. 

Up  into  the  North  River  the  black  muzzle  of  the 
steamer  points,  holding  her  way  amid  increasing  num- 
bers of  tugs,  ferry-boats,  brick  schooners,  oil  lighters 
and  car  barges.  Gradually  the  bunched  appearance  of 
the  tall  buildings  begins  to  change.  The  group  partially 
disintegrates,  certain  of  the  taller  peaks  draw  off  and 
stand  alone,  the  lower  city  begins  to  show  its  profile. 
This  is  the  view  of  the  city  that  Mr.  Henry  James  de- 
scribes as  like ''some  colossal  hair  comb  turned  upward, 
and  so  deprived  of  half  its  teeth  that  the  others,  at  their 
uneven  intervals,  count  doubly  as  sharp  spikes."  The 
simile  has  a  modicum  of  truth  about  it.     The  want  of 


30  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

teeth  here  and  there  shows  that  the  growth  is  not  com- 
plete, that  the  city  is  still  in  a  building  stage;  but  that 
the  present  sky-line  is  unattractive  can  hardly  be  ad- 
mitted. On  the  contrary,  if  seen  late  in  the  afternoon 
when  the  great  foundation  walls  are  sunk  in  shadow, 
when  the  sun  is  setting  over  New  Jersey  and  its  yellow 
light  flushes  the  tops  of  the  high  buildings  and  turns 
the  window-panes  to  flaming  fire,  this  profile  view  of 
the  lower  city  is  magnificently  grand.  There  never  was 
quite  such  a  mountain  barrier  made  by  human  hands 
and  stretched  along  the  eastern  sky  at  sunset.  Even  in 
the  full  light  of  noonday,  with  dark  shadows  flung  down 
the  great  walls  and  high  lights  leaping  from  cornice  to 
gilded  dome,  or  at  dusk  when  each  house  of  many  thou- 
sand electric  lights  has  its  windows  illuminated,  there 
is  still  a  grandeur  of  mass,  of  light,  of  color,  that  is  most 
imposing.  That  there  is  incongruity,  want  of  proportion, 
want  of  Greek  harmony  about  it,  is  quite  true.  But 
perhaps  even  so  severe  a  critic  as  Mr.  James  will  admit 
that  the  problem  of  New  York  to-day  is  quite  different 
from  the  problem  of  Athens  in  Periclean  times.  Athens, 
or  at  least  the  beautiful  part  of  it,  was  built  to  gratify 
the  vanity  of  the  Athenians;  New  York  has  been  built 
to  handle  the  commerce  of  the  western  world. 

Commerce,  travel,  traffic,  seem  to  proclaim  themselves 
from  every  craft  that  floats  in  the  harbor  and  from  all 
the  docks  along  the  shores.     The  impulsive  ferry-boats, 


THE  APPROACH  FROM  THE  SEA       31 

carrying  their  thousands  of  commuters  to  or  from  New- 
Jersey,  keep  darting  back  and  forth  from  their  slips,  im- 
pudently challenging  our  great  liner  with  short,  hoarse 
whistles  that  indicate  they  mean  to  cross  our  bows. 
They  have  to  ''make  a  train"  and  are  not  to  be  stopped. 
Long  scows  loaded  with  freight-cars  are  being  shoved 
and  pushed  around  the  Battery  and  up  to  Mott  Haven, 
where  the  cars  are  transferred  to  New  England  railway 
tracks;  pile-drivers  in  tow  go  staggering  up  the  river  to 
the  new  docks  in  process  of  building;  great  strings  of 
canal  boats,  half  a  dozen  long  and  three  abreast,  are 
trailing  away  toward  Raritan  Bay ;  coal  barges  in  squad- 
rons keep  filing  past.  Everything  is  moving  in  the 
interest   of   commerce. 

Much  of  this  commercial  show,  in  scale  and  value, 
falls  far  short  of  the  imposing  row  of  office  buildings 
staked  out  from  the  Battery  to  the  Plaza.  Enough  of 
it  is  petty  or  mean-looking,  as,  for  instance,  the  rows  and 
rows  of  pile-docks  with  long  ramshackle  pier-sheds 
upon  them.  True,  they  serve  their  purpose  fairly  well. 
With  the  necessities  for  many  and  quick  landings  the 
wooden  dock  that  gives  instead  of  breaking  with  the 
blow  is  better  than  the  stone  dock  that  might  crush  or 
bend  the  plates  of  a  vessel;  but  not  even  a  very  ''good 
American  "  will  argue  that  they  are  better-looking  and 
make  a  finer  appearance  than  the  stone  ones.  If  the  truth 
were  told  the  wooden  piers  are  a  shabby,  poverty-stricken, 


32  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

and  patched  border  for  so  wealthy  a  city  to  be  wearing 
on  its  outer  garment.  They  contrast  sharply  with  the 
huge  steamers,  the  colossal  bridges,  and  the  high  towers 
of  the  sky-scrapers  —  the  first  contrast  perhaps  to  catch 
the  eye  of  the  visitor. 

To  be  sure,  one  soon  forgets  or  fails  to  see  these  dis- 
cordant items.  There  is  such  a  bewildering  rush  at  every 
one  of  the  senses  as  the  steamer  moves  up  past  the  Court- 
landt  Street  ferry-slip,  that  the  forlorn  docks  and  the 
dirty  scows  are  relegated  to  the  background.  Color 
asserts  itself.  It  blares  from  the  many-hued  pier-sheds, 
from  the  white  and  gold  excursion  steamers,  from  the 
red  and  cream  colored  funnels  of  the  ocean  liners,  from 
the  magenta  ferry-boats,  from  the  terra-cotta,  brick, 
and  stone  buildings.  It  is  too  near  for  any  large  unity 
or  harmony.  It  comes  in  patches  with  some  sharpness 
of  impact,  and  is  at  first  (perhaps  by  contrast  with  the 
dull  blue  and  green  of  northern  Europe)  somewhat  gay, 
but  agreeably  so.  There  is  a  stimulus,  a  tonic  effect  about 
it  that  gives  intimation  of  the  intensity  of  life  that  pre- 
vails in  the  city  and  the  harbor.  It  is  not  the  deep 
half-tone,  the  broken  hue,  the  dull  morbid  color  indicative 
of  decay ;  on  the  contrary,  it  has  clearness,  even  sharpness 
in  it,  and  comes  to  you  like  the  clarion  call  of  a  trumpet. 

And  the  noise  !  The  shrieks  of  passing  steamers,  the 
discordant  notes  of  harbor  craft,  the  puffing  and  wheez- 
ing of  tugs,  the  din  of  escaping  steam,   clanging  bells, 


THE   APPROACH   FROM   THE  SEA  33 

howling  men  are  in  the  air.  The  deck  rails  of  the 
steamer  are  manned,  and  all  the  passengers  above  and 
below  are  in  a  buzz  of  excitement,  a  roar  of  noise.  The 
end  of  the  pier  and  the  windows  of  the  pier-shed  are 
bulging  with  expectant  friends,  eagerly  awaiting  the 
docking  of  the  big  liner,  and  all  making  a  noise  again. 
Flags  are  flying,  handkerchiefs  are  waving,  everybody 
is  talking,  a  large  proportion  is  shouting. 

The  warping-in  process,  slowly  effected  by  the  aid 
of  tugs  and  windlasses,  is  accompanied  by  volleys  of 
recognitions  sent  to  the  steamer  from  the  dock,  and 
returned  in  kind.  And  such  a  kind  !  The  manner  in 
which  the  language  is  mangled,  to  say  nothing  of  the 
idioms  interpolated,  gives  one  quite  a  shock.  Such 
a  beautiful  bay  and  harbor,  such  wonderful  sunlight  and 
color,  such  a  marvel  of  a  city  in  its  making;  but  what 
abominable  voices,  and  what  atrocious  grammar !  You 
know  that  the  ungrammatical  and  the  slangy  are  always 
in  evidence  on  such  occasions,  and  that  the  well-bred 
majority  is  quiet  and  unobtrusive;  but,  nevertheless, 
it  gives  you  a  queer  feeling.  It  is  another  one  of  the 
contrasts. 

And  are  those  yellow-faced,  unkempt,  ill-dressed 
stevedores  who  are  sagging  heavily  over  the  gang-planks 
the  typical  workmen  of  New  York?  Is  that  howling 
mass,  waving  its  arms  and  parasols  in  the  background, 
representative  of  the  city's  upper  classes?     Not  neces- 


34  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

sarily.  A  mob  is  a  mob  anywhere,  and  is  usually 
gathered  together  for  the  purpose  of  doing  those  things 
in  company  that  the  individual  would  be  ashamed  to 
do  alone.  Not  that  there  is  anything  reprehensible 
about  the  crowd  that  gathers  to  welcome  an  ocean- 
steamer,  but,  good  American  that  you  are,  you  wish  it 
were  not  quite  so  demonstrative,  not  quite  so  "loud." 
You  have  misgivings  that  perhaps  your  foreign  acquaint- 
ance on  the  steamer  will  accept  these  people  as  typical 
of  the  soil,  and  you  have  a  notion  that  the  real  American 
is  somewhat  more  refined,  more  dignified  than  these ;  in 
fact,  not  very  different  from  any  other  educated  person. 
To  be  quite  frank,  you  are  somewhat  taken  aback  to  find 
so  many  of  your  countrymen  not  so  high  up  socially  or 
intellectually  as  the  blue  sky  or  even  a  down-town  sky- 
scraper. 

The  gang-planks  are  in  place  and  the  rush  to  get  ashore 
begins.  There  is  no  cause  for  hurry,  because  the  baggage 
has  to  be  taken  off  and  examined  before  people  can  leave 
the  pier;  but  that  does  not  give  anyone  pause.  To  see 
the  scrambling  mass  moving  along  the  gang-planks  one 
might  think  the  ship  afire,  and  everyone  anxious  to  quit 
it  in  the  shortest  possible  time.  Off  they  surge,  bonnets 
and  bags  and  umbrellas,  new  clothes,  top  hats,  and  alpen- 
stocks, dogs,  maids,  and  stewards,  each  one  pushing  and 
hustling  his  neighbor,  but  good-natured  about  it,  smiling, 
laughing,  all  of  them  delighted  to  get  ashore. 


Pl.  7.  —  Docks  and  Slips 


THE   APPROACH   FROM  THE  SEA  35 

In  half  an  hour  the  whole  ship's  company  is  within 
the  pier-shed  getting  bags  and  boxes  together  for  the 
customs  examination.  Everybody  is  moving,  gesticulat- 
ing, calling,  perspiring.  Passengers  and  their  friends, 
with  stewards,  telegraph  boys,  customs  officers,  policemen, 
expressmen,  are  swirling  about  like  so  much  flotsam. 
It  looks  like  a  mad  mob,  but  there  is  a  method  in  the  mad- 
ness. The  moment  one's  boxes  are  together  a  special 
officer  can  be  obtained  to  examine  them.  A  landing  card 
is  presented  at  the  desk  of  the  chief  and  he  immediately 
details  a  subordinate  to  accompany  you.  None  of  them 
takes  off  a  cap.  Your  officer  may  nod  a  ' '  Good  morning  ! " 
but  it  is  very  perfunctory.  He  wants  to  know  at  once 
where  your  baggage  is,  and  if  it  is  all  together  in  one 
place.     Then  the  trouble  begins. 

That  is,  trouble  may  begin  if  one  tries  to  dodge  ques- 
tions or  hide  anything,  or  even  has  a  suspicious  look.  If 
one  knows  no  guile  he  need  fear  no  evil.  For  the  average 
customs  officer  has  no  malice  prepense.  He  is  anxious  to 
get  through  with  the  examination  and  get  you  and  your 
bags  off  the  premises ;  but  he  has  heard  somewhat  about 
the  path  of  duty  being  the  path  of  glory ;  and,  besides  — 
a  plain-clothes  inspector  may  be  watching  him.  At  any 
rate,  it  will  be  necessary  to  open  up  those  "few  presents" 
and  show  the  bottom  of  things.  Perhaps  when  he  has 
finished  there  is  nothing  but  bottom  left  and  most  of  your 
apparel  is  scattered  about  on  the  dock;   and  then  again 


36  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

it  is  possible  that  you  will  be  passed  on  as  pleasantly,  with 
withers  unwrung,  as  though  in  England  or  in  France. 

But  the  ordeal  is  through  with  and  help  is  at  hand. 
Ununiformed,  unlicensed,  unnumbered  porters  offer  to 
aid  in  restoring  the  lost  equilibrium.  The  belongings  are 
put  back,  squeezed  in,  trampled  into  place,  and  the  bags 
locked  and  strapped.  Then  the  porter  trundles  them 
down  toward  the  street  entrance  of  the  long  dock  and, 
incidentally,  stops  in  the  vicinity  of  carriage  agents  and 
cabmen.  A  bargain  is  struck  for  a  conveyance.  The 
price  is  of  an  exalted  sky-scraping  nature,  but  it  is  not 
the  proper  time  to  quarrel  with  cabmen.  They  know  it, 
and  charge  according  to  their  knowledge.  Neither  is  it 
the  place  to  get  the  best  cab  accommodations.  The 
horses  are  street-car  derelicts,  the  harness  gives  evi- 
dence of  disintegration,  the  carriage  and  the  shabby 
unshaven  driver  are  usually  the  worse  for  wear. 

One  resolves  not  to  be  bothered  by  such  small  matters. 
The  frayed  lining  of  a  coach  is  not  to  influence  your  opin- 
ion about  your  native  town.  A  look  out  of  the  carriage 
window  (or  over  it,  for  there  is  no  glass  left  in  it)  is  pleas- 
anter  and  more  philosophical.  Alas !  the  view  without 
is  quite  as  bad  as  the  look  within.  West  Street  is  crowded 
with  trucks,  drays,  carts,  cabs,  cars,  trolleys  that  tangle 
into  knots  and  bunches  and  then  somehow  untangle ;  the 
pavement  is  broken  by  car  tracks  and  an  occasional  hole 
into  which  wheels  drop  with  a  thud  and  come  out  with  a 


Pl.  S  —  New  York  Custom  House 


THE  APPROACH  FROM  THE  SEA       37 

jerk;  the  dingy,  battered-looking  buildings  that  line  the 
east  side  of  the  street,  the  cheap  and  gaudy  signs,  the 
barrel  skids  across  the  sidewalks,  the  lampless  lamp  posts, 
the  garbage  cans,  the  stained  awnings,  are  all  somewhat 
disturbing.  And  the  roar  and  rattle  and  clang  that  seem 
to  accompany  the  movements  of  that  mob  of  humanity ! 
Was  there  ever  such  a  din  known  to  men,  since  the  walls 
of  Jericho  fell  down  ? 

Once  out  of  the  West  Street  maelstrom  the  carriage, 
perhaps,  slips  into  a  long,  narrow  side  street,  made  up  of 
many  four-story  buildings,  all  quite  alike,  and  all  appar- 
ently inhabited  by  people  who  rub  unclean  hands  on 
doors,  walls,  and  shutters,  and  do  not  bother  about 
washing  either  the  windows  or  themselves.  Dull-looking 
women  sit  on  the  low  stoops  and  survey  the  street  in  which 
dirty  children  are  playing,  often  in  connection  with  stand- 
ing drays  or  ash  barrels  or  coal  heaps.  As  for  the  street 
itself,  it  is  perhaps  a  series  of  Belgian  block  bumps,  with 
an  occasional  break-away  into  asphalt.  Wherever  it 
crosses  another  street  or  avenue  there  are  double  car 
tracks  with  the  clanging  gongs  of  surface  cars,  and 
perhaps  overhead  the  rattle  and  roar  of  a  rusty-looking 
elevated  railway. 

There  is  no  cessation  of  clatter,  and  apparently  no  end 
to  the  mean  buildings  that  line  the  way.  Tenements,  fac- 
tories, shops,  saloons,  —  whatever  they  are  or  are  not, — 
at  least  just  here  they  hold  the  record  for  uniform  rectan- 


38  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

gular  meanness.  It  is  a  little  shocking  the  way  all  this 
is  driven  in  upon  one  after  some  months  in  Paris  or 
London.  Perhaps  you  have  ignored  it,  if  not  denied  it, 
many  a  time  in  speaking  of  New  York  over  there  in  Europe ; 
and,  true  enough,  there  is  some  improvement  over  earlier 
days ;  but  who  could  imagine  it  was  still  so  bad  !  Yet  this 
is  the  West  Side  of  the  city;  the  East  Side  is  perhaps 
worse.  You  begin  to  wonder  about  the  narrow  strip  of 
comparative  decency  running  up  Fifth  Avenue,  Madison 
Avenue,  and  Broadway.  Perhaps  in  your  absence  even 
that  has  become  submerged  beneath  the  high  waves  of 
immigration. 

Gradually  the  buildings  grow  larger  and  more  important, 
the  streets  cleaner  and  more  filled  with  people,  the  vehi- 
cles more  numerous,  the  noise  more  insistent.  Apart- 
ment houses  begin  to  rise,  shops  and  stores  develop 
imposing  show-windows,  cars  are  coming  and  going, 
crowds  are  circulating  in  strings  and  knots.  Presently 
the  carriage  rattles  into  Broadway  and  the  shabby  but 
unabashed  driver  begins  edging  his  way  across  it,  with 
one  eye  on  the  autocratic  policeman  who  stands  in  the 
center  of  the  street  and  regulates  traffic.  Through  and 
across  that  net-work  of  cars  and  people  the  route  lies 
down  a  clean  asphalt  street  to  Fifth  Avenue,  and  in  a 
few  moments  your  dilapidated  trap  brings  up  with  a 
flourish  of  whip,  in  front  of  perhaps  the  most  ornate  hotel 
in  the  world. 


THE   APPROACfl   FROM   THE   SEA  39 

Carriages  in  plush  and  velvet,  ladies  in  silks  and  satins, 
flunkies  and  footmen  in  lacings  and  facings,  pages  in 
gloves  and  buttons,  blend  in  a  gorgeous  confusion  about 
the  entrances.  Within  there  are  glimpses  of  marble  and 
gilding,  Oriental  rugs  and  portieres,  visitors  in  gay  hats 
and  marvelous  costumes,  smartly  dressed  men,  hurrying 
porters,  telegraph  boys,  call  boys.  An  air  of  luxury  and 
wealth,  not  to  say  riotous  extravagance,  seems  to  exude 
from  every  opening  in  the  building.  Around  it  are 
colossal  structures  in  stone  and  marble,  along  the  avenue 
is  a  great  moving  throng  in  carriages  and  on  foot,  close 
at  hand  gorgeous  shop-windows  catch  the  eye,  in  the 
distance  towering  Flatirons  lose  themselves  in  pale  out- 
lines, over  all  there  is  an  unceasing  roar  and  honk  and 
whistle,  and  far  above  is  the  serene  blue  of  the  American  sky. 

There  is  nothing  strikingly  new  about  this.  The  New 
Yorker  has  known  it,  known  the  squalor  and  known  the 
magnificence,  for  a  long  time ;  and  yet  each  year  as  he  re- 
turns from  Europe  the  sharp  contrast  is  brought  home  to 
him  more  violently.  In  a  few  days  he  will  accept  it, 
without  further  thinking,  as  he  has  done  many  times 
before ;  but  he  knows,  nevertheless,  that  it  is  there.  And 
how  there,  why  there,  in  this  chief  city  of  the  great  repub- 
lic? Is  democracy  merely  a  name?  And  is  this  newly 
established  aristocracy  of  wealth  more  dominant,  more 
arrogant,  more  despotic,  than  the  old  aristocracy  of  birth 
and  rank? 


40  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

Fortunately,  those  questions  do  not  have  to  be  answered 
immediately.  The  stranger  in  New  York  is  at  first  more 
given  to  the  exclamation  than  the  interrogation,  and  as 
for  the  returned  native  he  is  perhaps  momentarily  dazed 
by  the  splendor  and  the  meanness  of  his  own  town. 
Besides,  concise  and  final  answers  are  not  to  be  accepted 
regarding  places  and  people  in  America.  Many  problems 
are  still  in  process  of  solution.  Not  even  the  Americans 
themselves  know  precisely  how  they  will  come  out. 


SEASONAL   IMPRESSIONS 


Pl.   III.- WASHINGTON    SQUARE 


3.5JAU92    MOTOHIHaAW— .III    .jS 


CHAPTER   III 

SEASONAL   IMPRESSIONS 

What  is  so  gay  as  a  day  in  New  York,  especially  if  it 
be  in  October !  The  city  is  perhaps  seen  at  its  best  dur- 
ing that  month.  The  inhabitants,  returned  from  their 
summer  vacations,  have  a  brightness  and  an  alertness 
about  them,  they  step  along  the  streets  energetically  as 
though  in  good  health  and  spirits,  and  they  pass  the  time 
of  day  with  cordiality,  even  vivacity.  Business  enter- 
prises of  the  winter  have  started  (or  at  least  one  thinks 
they  have  though  they  are  going  on  always) ;  summer 
changes  have  perhaps  been  made;  there  is  apparently  a 
newness  and  a  smartness  about  the  streets  and  shops  and 
moving  wheels. 

Above  all  it  is  the  season  of  light  which  may  possibly 
account  for  some  of  the  smart  look  of  things.  The  skies 
are  clear,  the  air  is  warm,  and  the  sunlight  falls  perhaps 
for  many  days  without  clouds  or  rain.  It  is  just  ordinary 
Atlantic  Coast  sunshine,  and  dull  enough  compared  with 
that  of  the  table-lands  of  Wyoming  or  the  deserts  of  Ari- 
zona or  the  sierras  of  Old  Mexico ;  but  by  contrast  with 
London  light  —  London  where  the  sun  seen  through  smoke 

43 


44  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

so  often  looks  like  a  hot  copper  cent  —  it  is  really  quite 
wonderful.  New  Yorkers  have  a  way  of  boasting  about  it 
as  though  it  were  something  of  their  own  manufacture 
(which  suggests  the  inclusive  mind) ;  but,  nevertheless, 
it  should  be  put  down  to  their  credit  that  they  have  tried  to 
preserve  it  by  prohibiting  the  use  of  soft  coal  within  the 
city  limits. 

Perhaps  as  a  result  of  the  soft-coal  prohibition  New 
York  is  a  clean  city.  Not  always  clean  underfoot.  In 
a  democratic  city  where  the  streets  belong  to  everyone 
to  use  and  to  no  one  to  keep  clean,  where  men  traffic  and 
team  and  are  always  in  a  hurry,  it  is  impossible  to  prevent 
accumulations  of  litter.  During  the  summer  months  it 
takes  no  herculean  effort  to  keep  the  streets  decently 
swept;  but  in  winter,  with  much  ice  and  snow,  and  a 
limited  and  unreliable  labor  supply,  the  difficulty  is 
greatly  increased.  London  or  Paris  perhaps  does  that 
sort  of  thing  better  than  New  York,  because  it  has  better 
facilities  for  doing  it ;  but,  nevertheless.  New  York  is,  all 
told,  the  cleaner  city.  Paris  is  gray  with  dust  and  London 
grimy  with  soot,  but  the  buildings  of  New  York  are  as 
bright  almost  as  the  day  they  were  erected.  Look  up  at 
the  clean  walls,  windows,  and  cornices !  How  newly 
washed  seem  the  chimneys,  towers,  and  domes !  The 
roofs,  when  you  see  them  from  the  upper  story  of  some 
sky-scraper,  have  a  scrubbed  look  about  them ;  and  even 
the  trees  in  the  larger  parks,  for  all  that  pipes  are  harrying 


Pl.  9.  —  The  P^latiron  (Fuller  Building) 


SEASONAL   IMPRESSIONS  45 

their  roots  and  gases  their  branches,  have  a  brightness 
quite  unknown  to  the  somber  growths  of  Hyde  Park  or 
the  Champs  Elysees. 

And  how  the  color  does  crop  out  at  every  turn  —  is 
brought  out  perhaps  with  some  extra  sharpness  because 
of  the  clear  light !  Everything  shows  color.  And  seldom 
do  you  find  the  same  tone  repeated.  The  buildings  along- 
side of  which  run  the  elevated  roads  from  the  Battery 
to  the  Harlem  River,  are  often  alike  in  structure  but 
seldom  in  hue.  They  differ  each  from  the  other  by  a  tone 
or  a  shade.  Stone,  brick,  cement,  terra-cotta  —  no  one 
could  name  or  count  the  hundreds  or  even  thousands  of 
different  tints  or  shades  they  show.  To  the  unobservant 
the  high  mass  of  the  Flatiron,  the  spires  of  St.  Patrick's 
Cathedral,  and  Diana's  Tower  of  the  Madison  Square 
Garden  are  alike  in  hues ;  but  neither  in  local  color 
nor  in  texture  are  they  the  same.  When  the  straight 
shafts  of  sunset  are  striking  them  and  the  light  upon 
them  is  reflected,  the  hues  may  be  in  one  saffron,  in 
another  pink,  in  the  third  salmon-colored.  Just  so  the 
morning  sun  falling  upon  the  tall  towers  of  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge  leaves  a  different  stain  from  that  upon  the  turrets 
of  the  Park  Row  Building  or  the  great  glass  walls  of  the 
Singer  Tower. 

Everywhere  one  goes,  up  or  down  the  city,  this  prodi- 
gality of  color  shows.  Sometimes  it  appears  in  large 
patches  like  the  red  mass  of  the  Produce- Exchange,  the 


46  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

gray  mass  of  the  sky-scrapers  at  Fifty-Fifth  Street  and 
Fifth  Avenue,  or  the  green  mass  of  the  Central  Park; 
but  more  often  the  coloring  is  in  spots  here  and  there, 
and  counts  only  as  variation  in  the  prevailing  note. 
For  there  is  a  prevailing  note,  a  blend  in  this  riot  of  hues. 
It  requires  distance,  however,  to  see  it.  Close  to  view 
many  of  the  colors  in  houses,  signs,  vehicles,  costumes, 
fly  at  you  rabidly,  and  are  perhaps  so  intense  that  you 
turn  away  with  dazed  eyes  only  to  see  the  complementary 
color  in  the  very  next  object.  Under  the  bright  October 
sun  every  hue  jumps  to  its  highest  pitch  and  apparently 
every  shadow  sinks  to  its  lowest  depth.  The  effect  is 
violent. 

But  October  with  its  bright  light  and  high  color  has 
also  its  lilac  or  purple  haze  that  blends  all  colors  into 
one  tone  and  makes  of  many  pieces  a  pictorial  unity.  The 
haze  does  not  belong  exclusively  to  the  woodlands,  though 
in  the  Central  Park  it  lurks  along  the  driveways,  rests 
upon  the  Mall,  and  floods  in  and  out  among  the  trees 
and  rocks  and  flowers;  while  beyond  Riverside  Drive  it 
hangs  above  the  Hudson,  shrouding  and  yet  revealing 
the  distant  Palisades.  It  is  also  to  be  seen  almost  any 
day  as  one  stands  at  the  top  of  Murray  Hill  and  looks 
down  Fifth  Avenue  toward  Madison  Square.  It  fills  the 
whole  lower  avenue,  surrounds  the  towers  and  steeples 
and  cornices,  and  draws  its  mauve-hued  veiling  across 
the  sharp  prow  of  the  distant  Flatiron,  making  of  that 


.  M- 


Pl.  10.  —  Nkw  York  in  Rain   (Park  Avenue) 


SEASONAL   IMPRESSIONS  47 

much  maligned  structure  a  thing  of  beauty.  It  is  not 
different  in  the  streets  of  the  lower  city.  Neither  here 
nor  there  does  the  dust  of  traffic  rising  from  the  streets 
obliterate  or  obscure  it.  On  the  contrary,  the  more  dust 
and  automobile  smoke,  the  heavier  is  the  atmosphere, 
and  the  more  perfect  the  ensemble. 

New  York  is  seldom  free  from  a  haze  or  mist  of  some 
sort.  But  it  is  a  very  thin  veiling  compared  with  that 
produced  by  the  moisture  and  smoke  of  London.  So 
it  is  that  the  Londoner  within  our  gates  is  almost  con- 
tinuously out  of  focus.  He  complains  of  ''loud"  colors, 
wonders  at  the  absence  of  aerial  perspective,  and  thinks 
it  all  signifies  and  symbolizes  our  crude  civilization ; 
whereas,  it  may  merely  suggest  that  he  himself  has  not 
yet  acquired  a  comprehensive  point  of  view.  He  is  per- 
haps looking  at  objects  and  colors  in  detail  rather  than 
in  their  relationship.  Seen  as  one  should  look  at  a 
Monet  landscape,  for  instance,  the  city  is  a  marvel  of 
color  and  light.  That  is  its  distinct  and  positive  beauty. 
Of  course,  it  is  somewhat  shocking  to  keep  reiterating 
this,  since  we  have  all  been  reared  in  the  belief  that 
civic  beauty  lies  in  classic  buildings,  in  roof  lines,  in 
squares,  ovals,  statuary,  and  the  like;  yet  the  hereti- 
cal still  insist  that  beauty  may  be  in  such  intangible 
evanescent  features  as  color,  light,  and  air,  with  arches, 
columns,  and  towers  little  more  than  the  catch  points  of 
perspective  —  the  objects  upon  which  light  and  color  play. 


48  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

This  lilac  or  purple  haze  of  October  may  run  through 
November  and  December,  with  day  following  day  of 
sunshine,  and  the  winter  come  late  to  the  city.  It  is 
not  an  unusual  experience.  Yet  as  January  comes  in, 
the  nights  and  days  are  decidedly  colder  and  the  autumn 
haze  has  perhaps  shifted  into  a  pale  blue.  The  air  seems 
thinner,  sharper,  more  eager;  and  the  tops  of  the  tall 
buildings  lift  out  of  the  dust  of  the  street  into  clearer 
and  brighter  regions.  All  the  roof  and  tower  and  cupola 
gew-gaws  seem  to  sparkle  in  the  sun,  the  drifts  of  steam 
from  the  hotels  and  high  apartment  houses  are  dazzling 
white,  down  in  the  street  people  in  heavy  coats  hurry  by, 
and  cabbies  and  flunkies  in  bear-skins  sit  on  their  boxes 
looking  preternaturally  red  in  the  face. 

At  times  it  can  be  very  cold  in  the  city  with  its  touch 
of  the  salt  sea  in  the  air  —  far  colder  than  in  the  country, 
notwithstanding  the  popular  belief  to  the  contrary. 
The  steel  buildings,  the  blocks  and  blocks  of  stone, 
brick,  and  cement,  the  flagstone  sidewalks,  are  receivers 
and  retainers  of  cold  rather  than  of  heat.  In  the  forest 
in  winter  a  wood  road  will  be  warmer  than  the  open, 
but  in  the  city  a  steel-and-stone  street,  swept  by  the  wind, 
may  be  colder  than  the  wind  itself.  And  how  the  wind 
can  blow  through  the  city  streets !  The  tall  buildings 
seem  to  catch  it  on  their  upper  walls  and  spill  it  like  a 
sail  down  into  the  thoroughfares,  where  it  moves  in 
violent  twists  and  spirals.      The  foot-passengers  in  the 


mm 


Pl.  11.  —  Fort  Lek  ix  Haze 


SEASONAL   IMPRESSIONS  49 

neighborhood  of  the  Flatiron  sometimes  have  unpleasant 
experiences  with  it ;  and  farther  up-town,  though  Society 
on  the  inside  of  a  brougham  goes  through  the  Plaza  to 
the  Park  with  unruffled  feathers,  yet  the  man  on  the  box 
has  to  "hold  fast."  It  is  the  same  story  in  the  lower 
city.  People  worry  along  the  streets  with  their  heads 
down,  holding  their  hats  with  a  firm  grip ;  the  peddlers 
and  newsboys  creep  into  the  great  doorways  and  stamp 
their  feet ;  and  the  big  truck  horses  go  by  with  steaming 
breath  and  waving  manes. 

In  freezing  weather  there  can  be  no  water  used  on  the 
streets,  and  the  dust  accompaniment  to  the  high  wind 
can  be  readily  imagined.  It  sometimes  blows  in  small 
clouds  to  the  infinite  disgust  of  everyone.  There  is 
nothing  to  do  about  it  except  to  get  indoors  and  watch, 
through  the  windows,  the  pavement  swept  smooth  in 
spots  and  heaped  with  eddies  of  dust  in  other  places. 
Fortunately  such  days  are  few.  They  are  not  pleasant  — 
no,  not  even  in  New  York  —  though  there  may  be  some 
consolation  in  thinking  that  they  occur  in  other  cities 
(Vienna  and  Rome,  for  instance)  quite  as  often  as  here. 
It  is  even  charged  that  Chicago,  with  its  appellation 
of  ''the  Windy  City,"  goes  beyond  New  York  in  this 
respect  —  something  which  every  New  Yorker  is  too 
modest  to  deny. 

Inevitably  comes  the  snow ;  and  that  in  a  city  is  always 
regarded    as    something    of    a    misfortune.     Up    in    the 


50  THE  NEW  NEW  YORK 

Central  Park  and  along  Riverside  Drive  it  looks  very 
beautiful.  The  children,  the  skaters,  and  the  coasters, 
with  those  who  have  horses  and  sleighs,  enjoy  it,  and 
people  who  have  offices  up  aloft  in  the  sky-scrapers  and 
see  it  flying  past  the  windows  in  great  gusts  and  clouds 
are  sometimes  elated  by  it ;  but  down  in  the  street  where 
it  falls  and  lodges  it  is  neither  inspiring  nor  welcome. 
It  mingles  with  the  dust,  is  churned  dirty  by  hoofs  and 
wheels,  and,  if  it  melts,  soon  makes  a  slush  underfoot. 
The  surface  cars  with  their  electric  brooms  push  it 
into  the  gutters,  the  ''white  wings"  of  the  street-cleaning 
department  heap  it  into  huge  mounds  for  carriages  and 
trucks  to  wallow  through  and  break  down  again,  and 
carts  work  at  it  for  days  and  weeks  trying  to  get  it  away 
to  the  docks  and  so  into  the  rivers.  A  week  after  a  heavy 
snow-fall  a  dozen  or  more  of  the  principal  streets  may 
be  clear,  but  the  side  streets  have  barricades  of  snow 
along  their  curb  lines  perhaps  for  a  month  or  more. 
Nothing  but  a  warm  rain  and  a  spring  sun  clears  up  the 
thoroughfares  effectively.  In  the  meantime,  through 
January  and  February  and  into  March,  with  the  alterna- 
tions of  temperature,  the  snow  melts  and  freezes,  making 
the  cross-walks  and  streets  disagreeable  and  occasionally 
quite   impossible. 

And  rain !  It  does  not  rain  every  day  or  every  week 
by  any  means,  but  when  the  wind  comes  out  of  the  east, 
the  storm  clouds  are  almost  always  following  close  upon 


c 


SEASONAL   IMPRESSIONS  51 

its  heels.  Then  the  signs  and  weather-vanes  and  windows 
of  the  city  creak  and  rattle  in  the  wind,  and  the  pipes 
and  gutters  gurgle  with  the  rain.  If  it  follow  cold 
weather  perhaps  the  rain  freezes  as  it  falls,  coating  with 
ice  the  pavements  and  stoops  of  the  houses,  the  high  sides 
of  the  sky-scrapers,  the  tall  masts  of  the  shipping  in  the 
rivers.  The  huge  suspension  bridges  turn  into  fairy 
creations  of  spun  glass,  the  trees  in  the  parks  glitter  like 
old-fashioned  chandeliers ;  while  down  in  the  streets  horses 
slip  and  motors  slide  and  the  pedestrian  has  difficulty 
in  keeping  his  feet.  As  the  rain  continues  the  ice  gradu- 
ally melts,  the  trolley  wheels  buzz  and  sputter  electricity, 
the  elevated  roads  spit  long  sparks  of  blue  light  from  the 
third  rail,  the  carriages  go  by  with  a  splash,  and  the  rub- 
ber-shod, rubber-coated  cab  horse  slowly  pounds  out  a 
hollow  clop-clop,  clop-clop,   clop-clop. 

Perhaps  a  night  and  a  day  and  a  night  the  rain  falls 
in  waving  sheets  that  slash  against  the  high  windows 
of  the  office  buildings,  and  break  into  water-dust  against 
turret  and  tower.  The  streets  are  flooded,  the  tide- 
water, driven  in  by  the  wind,  is  up  to  its  highest  pitch, 
the  cellars  along  West  Street  are  drowned  out,  and  every 
pipe  is  working  overtime  in  getting  rid  of  the  flood. 
Gradually  all  the  dirty  snow  of  many  weeks'  accumula- 
tion seems  to  slip  from  the  turtle  back  of  the  island  and 
slide  toward  one  or  the  other  of  the  rivers.  The  city  is 
washed  clean.     Before  morning  the  wind  shifts  into  the 


52  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

south,  the  clouds  break;  and  when  the  sun  comes  up 
perhaps  New  York  awakes  to  find  that  spring  has  arrived 
overnight. 

Spring  apparently  comes  earlier  to  the  city  than  to 
the  country.  The  small  parks  shut  in  by  high  build- 
ings, and  thus  protected  in  measure  from  the  winds, 
respond  quickly  to  the  first  warm  sun.  Even  in  the 
Central  Park  the  grass  shows  green  in  the  little  swales 
a  week  before  it  starts  into  life  up  in  Westchester,  and  the 
stems  of  the  maple  put  on  a  ruddy  glow  some  days  sooner 
than  over  in  New  Jersey.  Around  the  southern  slopes 
of  the  rocks  the  crocuses  and  dandelions  push  up,  and  in 
the  lowlands  pussy  willows  begin  to  burst  with  impa- 
tience. Nature  turns  uneasily  in  her  sleep  in  the  early 
days  of  March  for  all  that  there  may  be  some  patches 
of  snow  still  lying  in  the  hollows.  The  bluebirds  and 
song  sparrows  come  back  by  ones  and  twos  and  threes, 
and  the  blackbirds  and  robins  in  flocks,  to  add  to  the 
sense  of  stirring  life.  New  York  itself  seems  to  emerge 
as  from  a  bath  with  a  cleaner  and  fresher  aspect. 

The  cold  blue  haze  of  winter  is  now  seldom  seen.  In 
its  place  there  is  a  warm,  silver-gray  atmosphere  that 
is  more  apparent,  more  of  an  envelope,  more  of  a  har- 
monizer  of  local  hues.  It  seems  to  come  out  of  the  moist 
ground,  out  of  the  rivers,  out  of  the  harbors,  and  is 
possibly  the  residuum  of  spring  mists  and  dews.  The 
days  of  March  and  April  are  not  wanting  in  sunshine, 


SEASONAL   IMPRESSIONS  53 

yet  they  also  bring  gray  clouds  and  falling  rain.  The 
rain  is  welcomed  in  the  parks,  along  the  driveways,  and 
in  the  less  cleanly  portions  of  the  city.  And  it  is  inter- 
esting to  watch  as  it  falls  into  the  streets,  or  is  seen  in 
bright  diagonal  lines  against  the  tall  buildings,  or  splashes 
into  the  rivers  and  makes  a  bubbling  surface,  or  hangs 
like  a  fringed  mantle  over  the  Palisades,  over  Brooklyn 
Heights,  over  the  hills  of  Staten  Island.  How  very 
beautiful  the  high  ridge  of  sky-scrapers  looks  shrouded 
in  that  silver-gray  mist,  their  tops  half-disappearing  in 
the  upper  blend  of  rain  and  clouds,  and  around  their 
bases  the  docks  and  shipping  half-emerging  from  the 
lower  mists  !  What  wonderful  patterns,  what  mysterious 
appearances,  these  high  buildings  take  upon  themselves 
with  their  masses  of  light  and  dark  floating  in  the  heavy 
atmosphere  of  rain ! 

When  the  sky  clears,  the  blue  seems  more  intense  than 
ever,  the  white  clouds  are  dazzling  in  light  and  perhaps 
heaped  into  enormous  mounds  of  cumulus;  and  the 
sunlight  falls  clear  and  bright  on  the  white  walls  of  the 
Metropolitan  Tower,  and  upon  Diana  of  the  Bended  Bow 
above  the  Madison  Square  Garden.  The  long  wet  streets 
steam  in  the  sun,  the  soaked  trees  in  the  parks  steam, 
even  the  wet  cab  horses,  as  they  jog  by,  steam  too. 
Gradually  the  city  dries  out,  returning  to  its  normal 
condition;  but  the  Flatiron,  which  acts  as  a  barometer 
for  the  people  passing  on  upper  Fifth  Avenue,  indicates 


54  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

that  there  is  still  considerable  humidity  in  the  air.  A 
gray  mist  surrounds  it.  The  time  has  come  for  jonquils 
and  tulips  in  Union  Square,  and  spring  in  New  York 
is  not  very  different  from  spring  elsewhere. 

Gradually,  and  quite  imperceptibly,  the  season  slips  on. 
The  cumulus  clouds  heap  higher  and  higher  along  the 
southern  horizon,  the  grass  turns  a  summer  green  down 
at  the  Battery,  the  trees  break  into  full  leaf  up  in  the 
parks.  The  flower  shops  along  the  avenues  are  over- 
flowing upon  the  sidewalks  with  bursting  beauty;  the 
East  Side  fire-escapes  in  spots  are  green  and  white  and 
yellow  with  plants  growing  in  cans;  and  up  toward  the 
Bronx  and  Pelham  Bay,  over  in  the  borough  of  Queens, 
down  on  the  hills  of  Staten  Island,  the  wild  flowers  grow  in 
the  fields  and  woods,  just  as  they  did  in  the  days  when  Peter 
Minuit  bought  the  island  of  Manhattan  from  the  Indians 
for  sixty  guilders,  payable  in  goods  of  Dutch  manufacture. 

And  so  the  summer  comes  in  —  is  ushered  in  usually 
about  the  middle  of  June  by  three  or  four  days  of  heat. 
If  accompanied  by  moisture  in  the  air,  its  results  are 
somewhat  disturbing.  The  newspapers  print  lists  of  the 
heat  prostrations,  and  the  reporters  delight  in  picturing 
the  horrors  of  the  hot  wave  with  that  wealth  of  adjec- 
tive and  height  of  caption  peculiar  to  modern  journalism. 
But  the  dangers  are  somewhat  exaggerated.  Those 
who  use  ordinary  precautions  are  in  no  peril.  As  for 
the  quality  of  the  heat,  it  is  not  different  from  that  which 


SEASONAL   IMPRESSIONS  55 

occasionally  visits  Paris  or  Berlin  or  Vienna.  Still,  it 
is  not  to  be  denied  that  in  New  York  men  and  horses 
do  drop  here  and  there  when  the  mercury  mounts  very 
high ;  and  those  who  do  not  drop  are  not  having  the  most 
enjoyable  time  of  their  lives.  Hot  weather  in  New  York 
is  not  more  defensible  than  elsewhere,  and  those  who  can 
do  so  generally  leave  the  city  behind  them  in  the  summer 
season. 

But  if  the  city  is  not  so  pleasant  in  July  as  in  November, 
it  is  often  more  beautiful.  Heat  brings  out  color  in  its 
richest  tints.  The  blue  and  the  gray  hazes  disappear, 
and  now  the  distant  Flatiron,  seen  down  Fifth  Avenue, 
seems  to  float  in  a  rosy  atmosphere.  During  the  long 
summer  afternoons  the  high  sky  above  it  shows  a  pallid 
blue  suffused  with  pink.  Warm  colors  are  in  the  clouds, 
and  are  reflected  from  the  white  buildings,  the  tall  towers, 
the  harbor  waters,  even  from  the  roadways  and  drive- 
ways along  the  rivers. 

It  is  on  such  summer  evenings  as  these,  when  the 
western  sky  is  flushed  with  hot  hues,  that  the  spires  of 
St.  Patrick's  Cathedral,  seen  from  Sixth  Avenue,  take 
on  pink  and  red  and  yellow  tones;  and  the  high  tower 
of  the  Times  Building  runs  from  a  red  glow  at  sunset 
through  pink,  mauve,  and  lilac,  until,  with  twilight  gone, 
it  settles  into  a  blue  that  belongs  exclusively  to  the 
summer  night.  These  are  the  evenings,  too,  for  the  sky- 
scrapers of  the  lower  town  to  light  up  with  strange  hues 


56  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

along  their  peaks,  and  reflect  fiery  lights  from  their 
countless  windows.  The  sun  is  a  wonderful  alchemist, 
and  it  works  as  busily  and  as  potently  on  the  face  wall 
of  a  sky-scraper  as  on  the  canyon  walls  of  the  Colorado 
or  the  snow  caps  of  Monte  Rosa. 

Unfortunately,  the  hurrying  New  Yorker  is  not  in  a 
mood  to  enjoy  these  summer  color-changes.  He  is  dis- 
turbed in  his  comfort,  he  fumes  and  frets ;  and  as  a  result, 
he  exaggerates  both  the  heat  and  his  own  condition. 
He  is  not  "roasted"  or  ''melted,"  as  he  writes  the  family. 
In  reality  he  often  has  a  cooler  and  pleasanter  summer 
in  town  than  the  family  sojourning  in  a  box  of  a  hotel 
in  the  mountains  or  by  the  sea-shore.  His  house  is 
usually  large  and  airy,  his  office  is  high  up  in  the  region 
of  the  winds,  and  he  has  a  thick-walled  club  where  he 
seeks  refuge  in  the  evenings.  With  the  huddled  and 
packed  crowds  on  the  East  Side  it  is  somewhat  different. 
They  never  go  away,  never  get  a  vacation  of  any  kind, 
except  for  a  day  on  a  recreation  pier  or  on  an  excursion 
steamer  down  the  bay ;  they  have  neither  cool  houses 
nor  breezy  offices.  During  the  hot  weather  they  live 
in  the  street,  sleep  on  the  roofs,  and  endure  the  heat 
in  silence.  They  suffer  without  doubt,  and  yet  their 
miseries  cannot  be  put  down  solely  to  the  climate.  Peo- 
ple when  "cabined,  cribbed,  confined,"  cannot  be  very 
happy  or  comfortable  though  the  bending  skies  above  be 
those  of  Olympus. 


SEASONAL   IMPRESSIONS  57 

Aside  from  the  very  rich  and  the  very  poor  there  are 
the  many  thousands  of  neither  high  nor  low  degree,  who 
endure  the  dog-days  in  the  city,  in  shop  and  factory  and 
office,  perspiring  and  grumbling  perhaps,  but  neither 
fainting  nor  faltering.  By  day  they  move  along  the 
shady  side  of  the  street,  and  by  night  they  haunt  some 
roof-garden  or  open-air  vaudeville ;  or  perhaps  sit  quietly 
on  park  benches  watching  the  water  play  in  the  foun- 
tains, or  the  gentle  swaying  of  the  tree  branches  in  the 
warm  air,  or  the  dark  purple  shadows  of  the  foliage  cast 
on  the  pavements  by  the  electric  lights. 

The  various  conditions  of  humanity,  each  in  its  own 
way,  manage  to  live  through  the  seasons  as  they 
come  and  go.  Of  course  New  York  has  its  many  short- 
comings and  does  not  lack  for  the  knowledge  thereof. 
It  is  charged  with  this,  and  indicted  for  that,  and  con- 
demned for  the  other  thing.  But  its  climate  is  neither  a 
failure  nor  a  crime.  It  is  merely  a  series  of  contrasts, 
like  so  many  other  things  that  one  meets  with  in  and 
about  the  city. 


THE   STREETS   IN   THE   MORNING 


Pu   IV.  -THE    PLAZA 


AXAJ'^    3HT  -  .VI   .jH 


' .  -i> 


CHAPTER  IV 

THE  STREETS  IN  THE  MORNING 

If  those  who  originally  planned  the  streets  of  New 
York  had  possessed  enough  imagination  to  foresee  the 
down-town  habit  of  the  present  day,  no  doubt  they  would 
have  arranged  matters  differently.  They  fancied  that 
the  city  would  be  a  great  shipping  center,  a  seaport; 
and  that  people  would  need  many  streets  running  to- 
ward the  water  on  either  side.  Moreover,  the  long 
backbone  of  Manhattan,  being  high  ground  from  which 
there  was  a  general  slope  away  toward  the  rivers,  must 
have  suggested  that  the  natural  drainage  and  sewerage 
of  the  city  would  be  along  the  many  ribs  or  streets  run- 
ning east  and  west.  No  one  thought  then  that  in  a  com- 
paratively few  years  half  the  population  would,  morning 
and  evening,  be  moving  along  the  ridge  of  the  island, 
crowding,  clutching,  struggling  with  one  another,  like 
so  many  ants  traveling  along  the  narrow  top  of  a  fence 
rail. 

A  glance  at  the  map  will  show  the  peculiar  disposition 
of  the  land.  And  it  will  also  show  hundreds  of  streets 
running  east  and  west  from  river  to  river;    but,   at  its 

61 


62  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

widest  part  (Fourteenth  Street),  only  seventeen  avenues 
running  north  and  south,  and  the  majority  of  these  not 
available  for  through  traffic.  The  map,  when  taken  in 
connection  with  the  accepted  idea  of  most  New  Yorkers 
that  business  must  be  transacted  within  a  stone's  throw 
of  Wall  Street  and  living  must  be  carried  on  in  the 
neighborhood  of  the  Central  Park,  will  explain,  readily 
enough,  why  there  is  so  much  friction  during  the  "rush" 
hours.  Hundreds  of  thousands  of  human  ants  want 
to  pass  along  the  fence  rail  at  the  same  time.  The  wonder 
is,  not  that  some  of  them  get  hustled  and  pushed,  and 
that  many  lose  the  polish  of  their  boots  and  the  sheen 
of  their  hats;  but  that  more  are  not  injured  or  killed 
outright.  The  transportation  of  a  million  or  more  people 
a  day  from  one  point  to  another  along  the  high  ridge  of 
crowded  Manhattan  is  no  easy  task.  They  say  in  London 
or  Paris  or  Berlin,  with  a  little  air  of  superior  experience, 
that  they  do  things  differently  over  there.  True  enough, 
but  the  chances  are  they  could  not  do  this  kind  of  thing 
at  all. 

The  movement  of  these  large  bodies  of  people  along 
the  ridge  begins  early  in  the  morning.  From  seven  until 
ten  o'clock  one  may  notice  the  drift  of  people  in  the  side 
streets  toward  the  main  thoroughfares.  Men  hurry 
along  for  a  block  or  so  and  then  disappear  down  a  sub- 
way entrance,  or  up  the  steps  of  an  elevated  station, 
or  they  turn  down  an  avenue  to  wait  for  a  surface  car. 


|N-ife|!:i>f 


Pl.  13.  —  Broadway,  Down  Town 


THE   STREETS   IN  THE   MORNING  63 

The  surface  lines  along  Third,  Fourth,  Sixth,  and  Seventh 
Avenues  are  always  crowded  with  passengers  from  Harlem 
down  as  far  as  Union  Square;  but  they  are  not  usually 
taken  by  people  who  are  moving  toward  the  lower  part  of 
the  city.  They  are  not  fast  enough  and  are  subject  to 
being  held  up  at  every  street  crossing.  The  crowd  in  them 
is  ''getting  to  business"  in  the  up-town  stores  and  offices, 
or  else  is  coming  down  from  the  region  of  the  park  to 
shop  or  travel  or  keep  some  form  of  engagement. 

It  is  a  good-natured,  long-suffering  crowd,  and  submits 
to  being  packed,  like  cattle  in  a  box  car,  without  a  mur- 
mur. Long  after  the  seating  and  standing  capacity 
of  a  car  is  exhausted,  the  conductor  keeps  stopping  for 
''just  a  few  more."  No  one  complains.  Everyone  has 
been  one  of  the  stopped-for,  and  knows  what  it  means 
to  be  left  standing  on  a  street  corner,  perhaps  in  the  rain. 
Finally  the  car  is  filled  to  the  bursting  point,  and  when 
a  quick  stop  or  a  sudden  start  is  made,  the  mass  within, 
holding  on  by  straps,  rolls  and  sways  like  a  lump  of  jelly. 
As  for  the  crowds  that  choke  the  platforms  without, 
they  roll  too,  but  regain  their  equilibrium  by  force  of 
sheer   bulk   and   iron   railings. 

The  conductor  wriggles  in  and  out  among  the  masses, 
collecting  fares,  disarranging  toilets,  and  elbowing  people 
right  and  left ;  but  no  one  says  anything  in  remonstrance. 
It  is  not  that  people  fail  to  realize  the  absurd  and  the 
disagreeable  in  all  this,  but  because  they  recognize  the 


64  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

unavoidable.  What  use  to  quarrel  about  what  cannot 
be  helped?  They  have  to  be  at  their  posts  at  a  certain 
hour,  and  there  is  no  other  way  to  get  there.  The  service 
is  inadequate,  to  be  sure,  but  how  can  it  be  bettered? 
It  changes  completely  every  few  years  in  the  endeavor 
to  accommodate  itself  to  the  increased  demand ;  but  the 
crowd  keeps  growing  faster  than  human  wit  can  devise 
larger  and  better  means  of  transportation.  The  foreign 
visitor  who  stands  agape  at  this  packing  of  cars  has  not 
the  smallest  idea  of  the  problem  presented.  It  is  not 
the  moving  of  a  few  thousand  people  at  leisure,  but  the 
carrying  each  day  of  nearly  two  million  passengers  in  the 
borough  of  Manhattan  alone,  and  the  bulk  of  them  during 
the  ''rush"  hours  at  morning  and  evening.  The  squeezed 
and  jammed  and  jellied  public  knows  something  about 
this,  and,  sensibly  enough,  agrees  to  accept  the  inevitable. 
The  volume  of  this  up-town  crowd  of  buyers,  travelers, 
clerks,  managers,  typewriters,  and  shop  girls  that  fill 
the  surface  cars  in  the  early  morning  is  by  no  means 
insignificant.  It  is  really  enormous,  almost  as  great  as 
the  crowd  that  gathers  in  the  neighborhood  of  Wall 
Street.  For  it  is  an  exaggeration  to  say  that  all  busi- 
ness is  done  down  town.  There  are  many  large  banks, 
insurance  companies,  printing-offices  and  wholesale  houses, 
to  say  nothing  of  the  retail  shops,  in  the  upper  city. 
Then  too,  most  of  the  railroading,  manufacturing,  and 
shipping  is  carried  on  along  the  upper  east  and  west  sides. 


Pl.  14.  —  Broad  Stuket 


THE  STREETS   IN  THE  MORNING  65 

And  though  all  the  surface  cars  in  the  morning  going 
down  town  are  filled  to  overflowing,  the  returning  cars 
are  not  entirely  empty.  There  are  stray  currents  of 
humanity  that  help  restore  the  lost  balance  —  people 
who  for  one  reason  or  another  move  in  an  opposite  direc- 
tion to  the  main  streams.  Harlem  and  beyond  are  not 
deserted  when  the  Stock  Exchange  opens.  Some  busi- 
ness, some  traffic  is  going  on  all  over  the  city,  at  all  times. 
However,  the  main  currents  in  the  early  morning  set 
toward  Wall  Street  and  they  find  the  lines  of  most 
resistance  but  of  least  time  by  way  of  the  elevated  roads 
and  the  subways.  The  crush  on  these  through  lines  is 
similar  to  that  on  the  surface  cars.  Train  after  train 
hums  and  rattles  its  way  into  the  station  to  find  a  long 
wall  of  humanity  lined  up  on  the  platform  ready  to  board 
it.  There  is  a  clank  of  gates  or  the  slam  of  an  iron  door, 
a  few  apologetic-looking  people  respond  to  the  guard's 
call  of  '^ Passengers  off  first";  then  there  is  an  ''All 
aboard,"  followed  by  a  steady  stream  of  people  pouring 
in  at  each  end  of  each  car.  The  gates  slam  shut,  the 
signal  cord  is  jerked  violently,  the  train  with  its  electric 
power  responds  with  another  jerk,  and  is  quickly  under 
way.  After  half  a  dozen  stops  the  train  is  filled,  and  if 
it  is  an  express  it  runs  through  to  The  Bridge  or  Rector 
Street  or  South  Ferry ;  if  it  is  a  local,  it  continues  adding 
passengers,  until  the  aisles  and  platforms  are  crowded, 
and  people  are  hanging  by  straps  as  in  the  surface  cars. 


66  THE  NEW   NEW  YORK 

It  is  the  same  good-natured,  tolerant  crowd,  whether 
met  with  on  the  surface  and  elevated  roads,  or  in  the 
subways.  It  stands  jostling,  pushing,  elbowing  with 
the  utmost  composure,  each  one  knowing  very  well  that 
he  himself  cannot  get  in  or  get  out  without  doing  the 
same  thing.  It  even  tries  to  be  indifferent,  looks  out  of 
the  window  or,  more  often,  hides  its  face  in  the  morning 
paper,  if  the  crush  is  not  too  violent  for  the  use  of  its 
hands.  But  the  morning  paper  is  not  taken  very  seriously. 
The  head-lines  are  read,  and  by  the  time  Franklin  Street 
and  Park  Place  are  reached  many  a  journal  has  found 
its  way  to  the  floor,  and  is  left  there  by  its  owner.  The 
passengers  now  begin  to  file  off.  At  Courtlandt  and 
Rector  half  the  occupants  have  disembarked  to  the 
refrain  of  "Step  lively,  please";  and  when  the  Battery 
and  South  Ferry  are  called  there  are  few  to  respond. 
The  guards  make  a  frantic  effort  to  gather  up  the  stray 
papers,  the  ventilators  are  reversed  with  a  slam,  and 
presently  the  train  is  going  north  at  high  speed  for  an- 
other load  of  passengers. 

The  disembarked  hastens  downstairs  to  the  street  or 
scrambles  upstairs  out  of  the  subway,  as  the  case  may  be, 
and  there  it  meets  and  mingles  with  the  larger  moving 
throng  of  the  lower  city.  Whence  came  this  greater 
throng  ?  How  did  it  arrive  here  ?  What  was  its  method 
of  transit  ?  To  answer  such  questions  one  has  only  to 
remember  that  the  island  of  Manhattan  does  not  begin 


THE  STREETS   IN   THE  MORNING  67 

to  furnish  houses  and  homes  for  all  the  people  that  do 
business  in  the  city.  There  is  a  great  host  living  on  the 
outskirts,  in  the  suburbs,  within  a  radius  of  thirty  miles 
of  the  City  Hall,  that  comes  and  goes  each  day  with  more 
regularity  than  the  tides  in  the  harbor.  This  does  not 
mean  merely  the  contingent  living  to  the  north  of  the  city 
in  Westchester,  or  along  the  sound  in  Connecticut,  though 
the  representation  from  there  is  Vast  enough  in  propor- 
tions to  fill  the  trains  from  Forty-Second  Street  down  to 
the  lower  city.  The  streams  of  humanity  flowing  from 
that  water-shed  are  very  large  and  yet  apparently  they 
dwindle  into  insignificance  compared  with  what  pours 
in  from  Long  Island. 

Up  through  Brooklyn  and  along  the  great  bridges  there 
is  continuous  travel  by  trolley,  motor,  and  foot,  from  early 
in  the  morning.  Before  nine  o'clock  the  tide  is  at  its 
flood.  Around  the  New  York  exit  of  the  Brooklyn  Bridge 
the  currents  from  many  directions  meet  and  mingle  to 
make  a  veritable  whirlpool  of  humanity  that  circles  and 
eddies,  foams  and  dashes,  gets  mixed  up  in  a  roaring  swirl, 
then  collapses  in  froth,  dissipates,  and  finally  trickles  away 
in  small  streams  to  various  points  of  the  compass.  Of 
course  there  is  a  blocking  of  traffic,  and  occasionally  an 
accident,  due  to  the  rush  off  or  on  the  cars,  that  pro- 
duces confusion,  excitement,  loud  protest,  or  angry 
denunciation.  But  this,  [though  a  not  unusual  occur- 
rence, always  leaves  the  pushed  and  hustled  crowd  more 


68  THE  NEW   NEW  YORK 

or  less  indifferent.  Everyone  knows  that  the  thorough- 
fares are  insufficient  during  "rush"  hours;  but  they  do 
not  know  how  matters  can  be  helped/ 

There  is  less  of  a  crowd  at  the  Williamsburgh  Bridge 
because  it  is  not  the  most  direct  route  to  the  lower 
part  of  the  city.  It  is  one  of  the  ways  by  which  those 
who  do  business  in  the  middle  Broadway  region  travel, 
and  it  contributes  its  sum  to  the  mass  that  each  morning 
moves  into  the  city ;  but  it  lends  not  directly  to  the  con- 
gestion of  the  lower  town.  Still,  though  it  is  not  a  direct 
way,  it  adds  something,  like  the  ferries  beneath  it  that 
keep  coming  and  going  from  shore  to  shore.  Time  was 
when  the  ferries  at  South  and  Wall  and  Fulton  streets 
were  the  only  means  of  getting  into  the  lower  town  from 
Brooklyn,  and  they  w^ere  then,  in  the  morning  hours,  often 
loaded  with  people  to  the  gunwales ;  but  since  the  building 
of  the  new  bridges  and  the  opening  of  the  Battery  tube, 
they  have  been  used  but  little.  Eventually  their  occupa- 
tion will  be  gone  completely. 

Thousands  upon  thousands  swarm  into  the  city  from 
Long  Island.  Bridges  creak  and  ferries  strain  and  tunnels 
roar  with  the  weight  of  them ;  and  the  rasp  and  shuffle  of 
their  feet  along  the  decks,  along  the  bridge  approaches, 
and  along  the  flagged  streets  help  make  that  deep  under- 

*  The  crush  at  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  has  been  greatly  reduced  since  the 
opening  of  the  Battery  tube  in  1908.  This  has,  for  the  time,  diverted 
much  of  the  South  Brooklyn  travel. 


THE   STREETS   IN  THE   MORNING  69 

tone  of  the  city  to  which  the  electric  cars  add  the  high  note. 
Yet  Brooklyn  and  beyond  is  only  one  source  of  intake. 
The  shores  of  the  Upper  Bay,  Staten  Island,  Coney  Island, 
send  up  their  quota  by  steamer  and  ferry-boat ;  while  from 
the  Hudson,  reaching  far  into  the  state,  steamboats 
and  railways  are  bringing  down  and  disembarking  more 
thousands  to  swell  the  throng.  But  the  body  of  com- 
muters that  comes  in  from  New  Jersey  is,  perhaps,  the 
greatest  of  them  all. 

Probably  four  hundred  thousand  people  is  a  moderate 
estimate  for  those  who  daily  travel  into  New  York  from 
across  the  Hudson.  It  is  nearer,  no  doubt,  to  half  a 
million.  The  local  trains  on  all  the  railways  through 
New  Jersey  are  crowded  from  seven  to  ten  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  the  double-decked  ferries  that  push  and  snort 
and  whistle  their  various  ways  from  shore  to  shore  look 
black  with  massed  humanity.  Again,  as  on  the  East 
River  side,  there  are  long  tunnels  under  the  Hudson, 
carrying  passengers  in  swift  electric  cars;  and  these  are 
lessening  the  crush  on  the  ferries  for  the  time  being,  but 
it  will  not  be  long  before  both  tunnels  and  ferries  are 
once  more  inadequate.  The  population  in  New  Jersey 
that  comes  and  goes  daily  to  New  York  is  increasing  by 
thousands  each  year,  and  the  greater  the  ease  in  getting 
to  town,  the  better  the  traveling  facilities,  the  more 
people  there  are  willing  enough  to  live  in  the  country  in 
preference  to  the  crowded  quarters  of  the  upper  city. 


70  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

The  traffic  over  and  under  the  Hudson  is  already  enormous, 
and  what  it  will  become  a  few  years  hence  no  one  can  even 
imagine. 

One  meets  with  the  same  throng  crossing  the  Hudson 
River  that  he  finds  in  the  subways  and  the  elevated 
trains.  It  is  not  over-polite.  There  are  men  who  get 
up  invariably  to  give  their  seats  to  women,  and  others 
who  always  apologize  for  crowding  or  jostling  a  neighbor; 
but  there  are  many  who  do  neither  the  one  thing  nor  the 
other.  It  is  not  so  much  want  of  manners  as  thoughtless- 
ness. They  are  not  thinking  about  their  neighbors.  They 
have  their  minds  fixed  on  the  day's  work  and  are  quite 
unconscious  of  anything  in  their  surroundings,  except 
the  time  that  is  being  made.  They  stand  or  herd  to- 
gether on  decks  and  platforms,  like  bands  of  sheep  in  a 
corral,  waiting  silently  until  the  boat  or  train  is  in,  the 
gates  are  opened,  and  they  can  hustle  up  the  runways  and 
get  into  the  street.  Delay  is  about  the  only  thing  that 
frets  them,  and  to  miss  a  boat  or  a  train  is  usually  con- 
sidered legitimate  excuse  for  profanity. 

Danger  and  disaster  frequently  follow  upon  this  high- 
pressure  speed,  this  unending  hurry;  but  the  average 
commuter  by  boat  or  by  tunnel  will  not  allow  himself  to 
contemplate  the  idea  of  anything  happening  to  him.  He 
dodges  like  a  mackerel  in  a  school  attacked  by  blue-fish, 
and  thinks  it  will  not  be  his  turn  just  yet.  The  train  comes 
to  a  stop  in  the  subway  or  on  the  elevated  and  instantly  a 


Pl.  lo.  —  Ann  Street 


THE  STREETS   IN   THE  MORNING  71 

hundred  windows  go  up  and  a  hundred  heads  are  thrust 
out,  each  one  anxious  to  know  what  the  delay  is  about. 
The  block  system  may  run  up  danger  signals  by  the 
score,  but  the  impatient  mob  within  wants  to  know  ''why 
he  (the  engineer)  doesn't  go  ahead." 

It  is  just  so  on  the  rivers.  Fogs  shut  down  and  shut  out 
everything  a  boat's  length  away,  the  bells  are  ringing  and 
the  whistles  blowing ;  but  the  mob  on  the  decks,  straining 
its  eyes  into  the  gray  pall  ahead,  occasionally  casts  a 
glance  toward  the  pilot-house  and  wonders  why  the  boat 
is  running  under  a  slow  bell.  Every  few  minutes,  even 
in  fair  weather,  there  is  some  craft  crossing  your  bows  or 
whistling  shrilly  that  it  intends  to  cross,  and  for  you  to 
''slack  up."  When  your  pilot  whistles  back  that  he 
rejects  the  proposal,  that  he  will  not  "slack  up,"  and  the 
other  craft  can  stop  or  take  the  consequences,  there  are 
plenty  of  people  on  the  decks  to  murmur  approbation. 
That  is  the  proper  spirit.  No  stop  for  anything.  A 
collision  ?  Well,  —  they  would  rather  run  that  risk  than 
get  to  the  office  late. 

Through  the  ferry-houses,  up  the  side  streets,  the  mov- 
ing, wriggling  throng  from  New  Jersey  is  shunted.  It  does 
not  now  bother  with  surface  cars,  for  it  is  easier  to 
get  up  toward  the  Broadway  ridge  by  foot.  It  follows 
the  sidewalks,  fills  them  full  to  the  curbstones,  and  winds 
on  over  gratings,  around  upright  showcases,  along  iron 
steps,  intent  upon  arriving  at  a  certain  place  at  a  certain 


72  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

hour,  and  not  intent  upon  anything  else.  Obstructions, 
such  as  packing-cases  being  loaded  on  a  truck,  or  a  belated 
ash-man  rolling  a  barrel  across  the  sidewalk,  divert  the 
throng,  but  does  not  stop  it.  It  turns  out  into  the  street, 
goes  around,  and  then  resumes  its  accustomed  flow. 
Hawkers  of  knick-knacks,  toy  venders,  fruit  and  flower 
peddlers,  newsboys,  yell  and  shout  at  it,  but  it  does  not 
swerve.  It  does  not  care  for  noise ;  but  let  some  stranger, 
meeting  another  stranger,  stop  on  the  sidewalk  to  shake 
hands  and  talk  for  a  moment,  and  instantly  everyone  is 
angry.  The  stream  is  backed  up  by  meeting  with  a  snag, 
and  the  chances  are  favorable  for  the  snag-makers  being 
pushed  into  the  gutter.  At  any  rate,  they  are  quickly 
made  to  realize  with  Mr.  Brownell  that,  '^  Whoever  is  not 
in  a  hurry  is  in  the  way." 

It  is  the  realization  that  the  crowd  itself  is  ''in  the  way" 
that  leads  many  of  its  units  to  drop  out  of  it  at  side  streets 
and  make  longer  routes  by  less  frequented  thoroughfares. 
Often  the  longest  way  round  proves  the  shortest  way  to 
the  office ;  and  there  are  many  desertions  from  the  throng 
that  winds  up  Courtlandt  or  Chambers  Street.  However, 
the  main  body  goes  on  and  finally  pushes  into  Broadway. 
There  it  mingles  and  is  lost  in  the  greater  procession,  some 
of  which  is  going  north,  some  south,  and  some  plunging 
in  front  of  trucks  and  trolleys  in  the  attempt  to  get  on 
the  other  side  of  the  street.  It  is  a  swift  and  compelling 
procession.     You  move  with  it  and  at  its  set  pace,  other- 


THE   STREETS   IN   THE   MORNING  73 

wise  someone  will  be  treading  on  your  heels.  In  fact, 
to  do  as  the  crowd  does,  is  almost  compulsory. 

The  objective  point  of  the  crowd  is  undoubtedly  at 
Broad  and  Wall  streets,  though  there  is  no  lack  of  activity 
along  Broadway  between  Fulton  Street  and  the  Custom 
House,  or  for  that  matter  along  Park  Row  or  on  Broadway 
above  the  Post-Office.  Still,  there  is  an  eddy  in  the  region 
of  the  Stock  Exchange  where  men  drift  about  in  circles 
as  though  they  had  reached  their  destination ;  and  tow- 
ards this  eddy  people  on  the  side  streets  seem  alternately 
drawn  in  and  sent  out  by  dozens  and  scores  and  hundreds. 

Those  who  come  and  go  in  and  about  'Hhe  Street," 
are  not  necessarily  heavy  operators  on  the  exchanges. 
They  may  be  only  clerks  and  messengers,  office  factotums. 
Some  of  them  may  have  no  business  at  all  and  are  drawn 
there  only  by  the  movement  of  the  throng.  It  is  even 
believable  that  a  part  of  the  eddy  is  made  up  of  driftwood 
—  derelicts  that  have  been  stripped  and  deserted  and  are 
now  floating  idly  about  in  the  strom.  The  unfortunates 
that  wander  penniless  in  the  Casino  Gardens  at  Monte 
Carlo  make  up  a  considerable  percentage  of  the  so-called 
''gay  throng"  there,  and  Wall  Street  has  its  numerous 
shorn  lambs  called  ''capitalists"  or  "brokers"  that  still 
stand  in  the  street  and  bleat. 

They  are  all  men.  The  women  do  some  trading  in 
stocks,  too,  but  usually  it  is  over  the  'phone  from  up 
town.     Petticoats  in  the  lower  city  during  business  hours 


74  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

are,  of  course,  seen,  but  infrequently  as  compared  with 
coats  and  trousers.  And  usually  they  belong  to  stenog- 
raphers and  typewriters  who  are  employed  in  the  various 
offices.  The  majority  of  women  living  in  upper  New  York 
never  go  down  town  from  year  end  to  year  end.  The  whole 
lower  part  of  the  city  is  given  up  to  men  and  their  business. 
They  are  nearly  all  what  are  called  middlemen,  and  their 
business  is  betwixt  and  between.  Few  of  them  are,  in 
any  sense,  original  producers.  They  are  doing  something 
''on  commission  "  ;  trading  in  stocks  or  cotton  or  pig-iron 
or  petroleum,  buying  and  selling  for  a  percentage  of  the 
account.  Even  if  they  are  selling  tickets  on  steamers  and 
railways,  or  writing  life  insurance  policies,  or  practicing 
law  up  a  sky-scraper,  they  are  still  men  working  for  fees 
and  salaries  —  middlemen  who  adjust  and  make  possible, 
but  do  not  produce. 

So  it  is  that  the  down-town  crowd,  as  it  winds  hither 
and  yon  along  the  thoroughfares,  is  a  peculiar  crowd. 
On  the  surface  it  has  little  of  the  stronger  if  rougher 
element  in  it,  —  no  mechanics  in  their  shirt-sleeves, 
no  stevedores,  no  miners,  no  mill-hands,  no  laborers.  The 
immense  foreign  population  of  New  York  is  not  here  in 
evidence,  the  negro  is  seen  only  occasionally,  and  such 
native  types  as  the  Yankee,  the  Southerner,  the  Missour- 
ian,  the  Californian,  are  not  recognizable.  In  fact,  it  is  a 
select,  gentlemanly-looking,  somewhat  whey-faced  multi- 
tude that  one  meets  with  in  the  Wall  Street  region.     Its 


Pl.   16.  —  Exchange  Place 


THE  STREETS   IN  THE   MORNING  75 

hands  are  white,  its  body  is  fragile  but  active,  its  head  is 
large  and  somewhat  feverish.  It  works  chiefly  with  its 
head.  It  thus  wears  out  its  nerves  and  is  threatened 
continually  with  hysteria ;  but  its  tenacity  and  endurance 
are  remarkable.  It  holds  on,  worries  through,  and  in  the 
end  gains  its  point. 

As  these  people  pass  you  on  the  street,  dressed  fashion- 
ably, moving  alertly,  saluting  each  other  half  flippantly, 
you  wonder  if  they  can  be  the  business  men  of  New  York 
who  pile  up  such  wonderful  statistics  in  banking,  trade, 
and  commerce.  Yes;  some  of  them.  Of  course,  the 
great  majority  of  them  hold  subordinate  positions.  They 
are  book-keepers,  managing  clerks,  salesmen,  little  brokers, 
hangers-on.  The  heads  of  corporations  and  large  institu- 
tions—  the  so-called  ''captains  of  industry"  —  get  to 
their  offices  by  different  ways  than  the  sidewalks,  and 
spend  little  time  wandering  along  Broadway  or  elsewhere ; 
but  their  lieutenants  and  under-officers,  those  who  will  some 
day  become  captains,  show  in  the  crowd. 

It  may  occur  to  you  that  these  rather  effeminate- 
looking,  city-bred  folk  can  know  not  a  great  deal  about  the 
larger  aspects  of  manufacturing,  commerce,  and  agri- 
culture ;  that  they  must  be  ignorant  of  the  practical 
workings  of  railways,  steel  mills,  and  copper  mines;  and 
that  their  trading  in  securities,  their  sale  of  grain  and 
cotton,  their  handling  of  cattle,  iron,  and  oil  is  all  more  or 
less  of  a  guess  and  a  gamble.     Yes;    but  it  might  be 


76  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

dangerous  for  you  to  presume  upon  that.  The  New 
York  broker  knows  the  financial  side  of  America  very- 
well  indeed  ;  he  is  an  excellent  promoter  and  the  cleverest 
of  all  commission  men.  It  sounds  righteous,  and  it  is 
just  now  politically  proper,  to  call  him  "a  gambler"  ;  but 
it  is  not  an  accurate  term.  Nor  is  it  generically  true. 
There  are  gamblers  in  New  York,  and  on  the  exchanges, 
beyond  a  doubt ;  but  there  are  also  thousands  of  straight- 
forward men  of  finance  without  whom  we  should  fare 
badly.  The  country  needs  its  Wall  Street  to  handle  its 
enterprises  of  great  moment. 

Are  these  then  the  representative  men  of  New  York? 
Yes  and  no.  They  are  one  kind  of  New  Yorker,  —  the 
kind  that  figures  with  undue  prominence  perhaps  in  the 
newspapers,  —  but  there  are  many  kinds  of  people  in  the 
city.  You  shall  not  be  able  to  point  out  the  type,  but  you 
shall  see  many  types.  Among  them  the  man  in  Wall 
Street  is  certainly  to  be  reckoned  with.  He  plays  a  very 
important  part  in  the  commerce  and  trade  of  the  city. 
All  told,  perhaps  the  bankers  of  New  York  are  the  most 
powerful  group  of  men  on  the  western  continent,  and  they 
certainly  lend  an  atmosphere  to  the  down-town  district, 
if  not  to  the  whole  city. 


DOWN   TOWN 


iiii'liiyiiriiiiiiiiiiiiPiiij  ■■ 


Pl.  v.— lower    BROADWAY       ELECTION    TIME 


3M!r    MOITOa.ja       YAWOAO^^a    5^3WO  ;         V    j-^ 


'-  »«c!M»f-rt 's^sr"*" — '''""IS "''y^' 


^< 


CHAPTER  V 

DOWN   TOWN 

It  is  difficult  to  convince  the  average  person  from 
without  that  everyone  who  transacts  business  in  lower 
New  York  is  not  a  banker,  a  money  broker,  or  in  some 
way  directly  connected  with  the  Stock  Exchange.  The 
tradition  has  gone  abroad  that  the  only  trading  below 
the  City  Hall  is  trading  in  stocks,  and  that  ''down  town" 
really  means  ''Wall  Street."  Of  course,  it  is  not  so.  The 
people  about  the  Stock  Exchange,  and  the  folk  that  press 
along  the  narrow  width  of  Wall  Street  from  Broad  to 
Broadway,  give  one  an  exaggerated  impression.  There 
is  trading  going  on  in  and  about  these  streets  without  a 
doubt,  a  great  volume  of  it;  but  there  are  also  other 
transactions,  taking  place  in  other  places  near  at  hand, 
that  have  little  or  nothing  to  do  with  securities  —  transac- 
tions carried  on  by  people  who  never  go  near  the  Stock 
Exchange  and  never  trade  in  stocks  of  any  kind. 

There  is  another  impression  abroad  among  strangers 
to  the  effect  that  most  of  the  business  of  Wall  Street  is 
transacted  on  the  sidewalk.  The  phrase  "in  the  Street" 
has  been  taken  too  literally,  as  meaning  that  operators  in 

79 


80  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

the  stock  market  carry  on  business  involving  millions  in  an 
unconventional  shirt-sleeve  manner  while  leaning  against  a 
lamp  post,  or  smoking  a  cigarette  in  a  restaurant.  True 
enough,  there  are  brokers  who  deal  in  securities  on  the 
sidewalk,  securities  of  all  kinds;  and  sometimes  the 
transactions  of  this  curb  market  are  of  some  volume. 
And,  true  again  it  is,  that  the  final  word  in  a  great  ''deal" 
may  at  times  be  passed  by  the  head  of  one  house  to  the  head 
of  another  house  while  meeting  casually  in  the  street,  or  in 
some  midday  lunching  club.  But,  generally  speaking, 
business  is  not  transacted  that  way.  It  is  a  little  more 
formal,  even  in  a  great  democracy.  The  bulk  of  sales  are 
made  indoors,  on  the  exchanges.  The  crowd  in  the  street 
means  little  more  in  barter  and  sale  at  the  corner  of  Wall 
and  Broad  than  along  the  sidewalk  of  Park  Row  or  about 
Bowling  Green. 

There  are  so  many  people  pushing  along  the  sidewalks, 
or  hurrying  from  curb  to  curb  in  the  lower  city,  that  the 
superficial  observer  quickly  concludes  that  all  the  world 
is  afoot  and  moving.  That  is  another  common  mistake. 
The  great  throng  of  humanity  that  pours  into  Broadway 
and  its  side  streets  must  go  somewhere,  else  it  would 
speedily  choke  up  and  fill  the  thoroughfares.  As  a  matter 
of  fact  it  begins  to  melt  away  as  soon  as  it  arrives.  It 
disappears  in  side  entrances,  in  hallways,  down  basements, 
up  elevator  shafts.  Swinging  circular  doors,  compressed 
air  doors,  slam  doors,  receive  it.     Iron  wickets,  steel  gates, 


DOWN  TOWN  81 

bronze  grilles,  open  and  close  for  it.  There  is  a  slide  and  a 
click  of  the  door,  something  like  a  long  breath  from  the 
elevator,  and  almost  before  one  can  count  his  fingers  he 
has  arrived  at  the  twentieth  story.  The  number  of 
people  in  the  streets  is  enormous,  but  there  are  ten  times 
the  number  seated  on  stools  and  chairs  in  the  countless 
offices  of  the  tall  buildings.  The  great  crowd  is  within 
rather  than  without.  The  committee  on  the  Congestion 
of  Population  has  estimated  that  if  all  the  people  in  all 
the  lower  city  left  their  offices  for  the  street  at  one  time, 
it  would  require  six  layers  of  sidewalks  like  the  present 
ones  to  accommodate  them. 

It  is  not  the  sky-scraper  alone  that  absorbs  the  multi- 
tude, though  it  does  its  share.  The  old-time  granite  and 
sandstone  ''blocks,"  the  iron-clads  of  the  seventies,  even 
the  ramshackle  brick  buildings  slipping  away  toward  the 
rivers,  do  service  in  the  providing  of  office  room.  And 
it  is  remarkable  how  very  little  room  is  required  to  do  a 
very  extensive  and  prosperous  business  —  that  is,  if  one 
chooses  to  judge  by  advertisement  and  letter-head  alone. 
Desk  space  is  at  a  premium  everywhere,  and  a  spot  large 
enough  to  hold  two  chairs  is  often  vantage  ground  sufficient 
for  a  Napoleon  of  finance  to  dazzle  the  back  country  with 
his  weekly  bulletin  of  "points"  on  Wall  Street.  But 
aside  from  such  pretension  there  is  a  great  volume  of  busi- 
ness done  in  very  small  space  in  lower  New  York.  The 
demand  for  quarters  creates  an  exaggerated  price,  and 


82  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

^'office  rent"  is  a  large  item  in  the  yearly  budget  of  every 
concern.  Yet,  large  or  small,  the  office  is  a  desideratum. 
It  is  headquarters,  and  there  transactions  receive  their 
last  analysis  and  are  paid  for. 

There  are  zones  or  districts  in  this  lower  town  that  seem 
sacred  to  certain  kinds  of  business,  and  where  other  kinds 
do  not  flourish,  practically  do  not  exist  at  all.  It  seems 
that  by  some  social  instinct,  or  feeling  of  mutual  protec- 
tion, the  birds  of  a  feather  are  disposed  to  flock  together. 
The  stock  and  bond  people  flock  around  Wall  Street, 
which,  of  course,  means  a  district  more  than  a  street,  the 
produce  brokers  form  another  group  around  Bowling 
Green,  the  shipping  agents  gather  along  lower  Broadway, 
the  insurance  men  between  Wall  and  the  City  Hall,  the 
coal  and  iron  men  on  Courtlandt,  and  so  on.  The  nucleus 
in  each  case  is  usually  formed  by  an  ''exchange"  where 
operators  meet  to  get  information,  and  to  give  and  take 
orders.  The  interest  of  these  exchanges,  to  the  visitor, 
largely  hinges  upon  the  apparently  excited  movements  of 
the  operators.  The  Stock  Exchange  is  the  one  usually 
visited  by  the  country  cousins  in  Gotham,  who  sometimes 
come  away  with  the  impression  that  they  have  seen  a 
lunatic  asylum  temporarily  freed  from  the  restraint  of 
the  keepers.  The  method  of  bidding,  with  its  suggestion 
of  insanity  in  the  actions,  looks,  and  cries  of  the  bidders, 
seems  as  necessary  to  the  Stock  Exchange  as  hammering 
and  noise  to  a  boiler  shop.     It  is  not,  however,  so  hysterical 


DOWN   TOWN  83 

or  frenzied  as  it  looks.  Most  of  the  cry  is  physical  and 
has  for  its  aim  the  recognition  of  the  crier  as  a  bidder.  To 
those  in  the  thick  of  the  bidding  it  is  often  as  matter-of- 
fact  as  the  loud  announcement  of  the  train  ushers  in  the 
railway  stations,  or  the  street  cry  of  the  newsboys  or 
fruit  hawkers. 

Moreover  (to  shatter  another  delusion),  the  operators 
down  below  on  the  floor  are  not  the  Wall  Street  capitalists 
whose  names  are  so  familiar,  and  whose  stock  manipula- 
tions are  read  about  in  the  newspapers.  On  the  contrary, 
they  are  merely  the  executants  of  orders,  called  ''floor- 
brokers."  Among  them  are  ''board  members"  of  large 
firms,  who  are  looking  to  it  that  orders  are  properly  filled ; 
sub-commission  men,  who  work  for  other  brokers  and  take 
a  slice  of  the  commission;  and  "room  traders,"  who  are 
sometimes  used  as  stalking  horses  by  large  firms  to  cover 
up  their  transactions.  They  are  all  either  bulls  or  bears, 
and  are  intent  upon  lifting  up  or  beating  down  the  market, 
as  their  interest  may  lie.  They  make  a  great  noise  and 
transact  a  large  volume  of  business;  but  the  people  for 
whom  they  are  doing  the  business  do  not  appear  on  the 
floor,  are  not  seen. 

The  Produce  Exchange  on  Beaver  Street  and  Broad- 
way does  for  all  manner  of  produce  substantially  what  the 
Stock  Exchange  does  for  stocks.  That  is  to  say,  its  mem- 
bers buy  and  sell,  in  a  "pit"  or  depressed  ring  in  the  floor, 
wheat,  oats,  barley,  corn,  feed,  flour,  tallow,  oil,  lard,  tur- 


84  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

pentine,  resin  —  all  manner  of  general  produce.  There  is 
also  a  great  deal  of  miscellaneous  and  contingent  business 
transacted  within  the  building.  Sales  of  cargoes,  arrange- 
ments for  shipping,  lighterage,  insurance,  may  be  speedily 
made  and  concluded  without  leaving  the  exchange. 
Reports  from  all  sources  are  collected  and  bulletined, 
quotations  here  and  abroad  are  given,  prospects  of  grow- 
ing crops  with  daily  and  weekly  receipts  in  New  York,  and 
stock  on  hand  in  London  and  elsewhere  are  announced. 
The  volume  of  business  continues  to  grow  each  year  at  an 
astounding  rate.  The  exchange  itself  profits  by  this. 
It  started  in  small  beginnings,  under  the  blue  sky,  on  the 
sidewalk.  It  was  not  formally  known  as  the  Produce 
Exchange  until  1868,  and  it  did  not  move  into  its  present 
massive  building  until  1884.  Since  then  its  membership 
has  increased  to  several  thousands ;  and  its  influence  upon 
trade  and  transportation  has  become  most  potent. 

The  Maritime  Exchange  is  closely  connected  with  the 
Produce  Exchange.  Its  business  is  to  promote  the  mari- 
time interests  of  the  city ;  and  those  who  do  business  on  or 
with  the  sea  —  agents,  shippers,  commission  merchants, 
warehousemen,  importers,  brokers,  marine  underwriters, 
wreckers,  ship-chandlers  —  are  eligible  for  member- 
ship. The  exchange  keeps  records  of  the  arrivals  and 
departures  of  ships,  their  movements  about  the  world, 
and  their  sudden  exits  by  fire  and  storm.  It  also  keeps 
tables  of  the  imports  and  exports,  regulates  and  reports 


Pl.  17.  —  Park  Row  Building 


DOWN   TOWN  85 

upon  navigation  and  lighthouses,  and  promotes  favor- 
able river  and  harbor  legislation.  The  Customs  House 
and  the  Post-Office,  as  well  as  the  newspapers,  get  much 
of  the  news  about  the  come  and  go  of  shipping  from  this 
source. 

Akin  to  these  exchanges  are  others  dealing  with  the 
special  needs  and  wants  of  special  industries.  The 
Consolidated  Stock  and  Petroleum  Exchange,  among 
other  things,  affords  every  facility  and  every  information 
for  the  sale  and  shipping  of  petroleum.  Each  year  the 
sales  there  run  up  to  something  over  a  billion  barrels. 
The  Cotton  Exchange  on  Beaver  Street  deals  in  everything 
connected  with  the  cotton  industry  and  the  marketing  of 
the  product.  The  Builders'  Exchange  has  to  do  with  the 
buying  and  selling  of  all  kinds  of  building  supplies  such 
as  cement,  brick,  stone,  and  the  like;  while  the  Metal 
Exchange  on  Pearl  Street,  the  Wool  Exchange  on  West 
Broadway,  the  Fruit  Exchange  on  Park  Place,  the 
Brewers'  Exchange  on  East  Fifteenth  Street,  the  Silk 
Association,  the  Shoe  and  Leather  Exchange,  all  serve 
a  purpose  in  promoting  business  in  those  commodities. 
Then  there  is  that  old-time  gathering  of  jewelers  on 
Maiden  Lane  about  the  Jewelers'  Board  of  Trade,  with 
the  pre-Revolutionary  Chamber  of  Commerce  now  on 
Liberty  Street,  and  a  Fire  Insurance  Exchange  on 
Nassau   Street. 

Besides  these  centers,  which  act  as  magnets  in  draw- 


86  THE   NEW  NEW   YORK 

ing  together  the  people  directly  interested  in  the  various 
industries,  there  are  spots  or  areas  settled  by  people 
who  have  allied  or  identical  interests.  On  Park  Row 
and  about  Printing  House  Square  are  scores  of  buildings 
devoted  to  the  publishing  of  newspapers;  about  Grand 
Street  there  are  blocks  given  over  to  the  wholesaling  of 
dry-goods,  down  in  the  hollow  of  Canal  Street  are  many 
freight  and  passenger  railway  offices,  not  far  away  are 
regions  dedicated  to  shoes  and  leather,  or  groceries,  or 
artificial  flowers,  or  feathers  and  milliners'  supplies. 
These  spots,  that  sometimes  cover  many  blocks,  are, 
of  course,  broken  here  and  there  by  interlopers  in  other 
businesses;  and  there  are  literally  thousands  of  firms 
in  lower  New  York  that  belong  to  no  group  and  are 
not  affiliated  with  any  of  the  exchanges.  There  is  hardly 
an  important  manufacturing  concern  in  the  United 
States  that  has  not  some  sort  of  headquarters  in  New 
York  below  the  City  Hall,  and  hardly  a  great  shipping 
or  commission  firm  in  any  of  the  large  towns  that  has  not 
an  office  in  the  lower  city. 

The  great  majority  of  these  offices  are  merely  brokerage 
places  where  transactions  are  financed  or  arranged  for, 
but  not  where  the  commodities  themselves  are  actually 
delivered.  The  buying  or  selling  is  "for  the  account," 
and  may  result  in  a  delivery  at  some  future  time  in  some 
other  place;  or  it  may  be  that  no  delivery  at  all  is 
effected  —  the    settlement   being   made    by   paying   the 


Pl.  is.  —  City  Investment  and  Singer  Buildings 


DOWN   TOWN  87 

balance,  be  it  profit  or  loss.  The  sales,  however,  where 
actual  delivery  at  some  time  and  place  is  made,  as  in 
stocks,  bonds,  steel,  sugar,  cotton,  wheat,  oil,  dry-goods, 
leather,  are  very  heavy.  If  the  estimate  of  them  were 
given  in  dollars,  it  would  have  to  be  in  billions,  for  millions 
would  be  inadequate  to  express  it. 

What  ''actual  delivery"  means  in  produce  and  manu- 
factures, aside  from  delivery  for  domestic  uses,  is  sug- 
gested by  the  volume  of  New  York's  foreign  trade.  It 
is  five  or  six  times  as  large  as  that  of  any  other  Ameri- 
can city,  and  amounts  to  nearly  one-half  of  the  whole 
foreign  trade  of  the  United  States.  Each  year  over 
three  thousand  steamers  and  a  thousand  or  more  sailing 
vessels  come  up  the  bay  from  foreign  ports.  They  bring 
the  bulk  of  the  things  imported  into  the  country, 
whether  raw  materials  or  finished  products.  Cotton, 
linen,  wool,  silk,  furs  worked  up  into  wearing  apparel, 
rubber,  coffee,  sugar,  tobacco  brought  in  crude  and  after- 
ward refined  or  manufactured  in  New  York,  are  the 
leading  items. 

The  city's  export  trade  is  even  greater  than  its  import 
trade ;  but  by  comparison  with  other  American  cities,  and 
considering  the  total  exports  of  the  country,  it  is  not 
preponderant.  Several  large  cities  contend  in  the  foreign 
shipments  of  wheat,  corn,  and  barley,  and  New  York 
handles  only  about  one-quarter  of  the  whole  foreign 
consignment.     Of  animal  products  it  ships  fully  one-half, 


88  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

but  of  cotton,  again,  only  about  one-tenth.  Still,  all 
this  when  considered  in  relation  to  the  production  and 
trade  of  the  country  is  of  huge  volume.  Once  more,  if 
it  be  estimated  in  dollars,  it  must  be  in  millions ;  and,  if 
the  domestic  trade  of  the  city  with  the  interior  country 
and  the  coastwise  commerce  of  the  port  are  included, 
the  figures  must  be  written  in  billions. 

And  even  yet  the  "business"  of  the  city  is  not  half 
stated.  No  one  seems  to  think  of  New  York  as  a  manu- 
facturing town.  It  is  considered  a  shipping  port,  a  city 
of  commission  merchants  and  brokers,  a  place  where 
wealthy  people  live  because  there  is  no  soft-coal  smoke 
as  in  Pittsburg,  Cincinnati,  or  Chicago.  A  sooty  air, 
blackened  buildings,  clanging  trains  of  cars,  and  long 
lines  of  mill-hands  in  blue-jeans  are  not  in  evidence; 
therefore  it  is  assumed  that  only  a  genteel  book-keeping 
and  profit-taking  business  goes  on  here.  But  not  so. 
Under  the  blue  sky  and  clear  light  of  New  York  a  larger 
and  more  valuable  series  of  manufactures  is  produced 
than  in  any  other  city  on  the  continent.  Manhattan 
taken  by  itself,  ranks  first,  and  Brooklyn  standing  alone, 
ranks  fourth  in  the  volume  and  value  of  these  manu- 
factures. Neither  of  them  beats  into  salable  shape 
steel  rails  and  iron  beams  like  Pittsburg,  nor  puts  up 
for  the  market  canned  and  salted  meats  like  Chicago; 
but  they  manufacture  hundreds  of  small  articles  used 
in  households  here  and  elsewhere  about  the  world. 


DOWN  TOWN  89 

The  item  of  clothing  alone  is  something  staggering  in 
its  figures.  The  large  foreign  population  of  Manhattan 
furnishes  the  necessary  labor  for  this  kind  of  work  — 
much  of  it  being  done  by  piece-work  in  the  tenements. 
The  manufacture  of  cigars  and  cigarettes,  of  lace  and 
millinery  goods,  of  feathers,  toys,  and  miscellaneous 
gimcrackery,  is  also  carried  on  by  the  tenement-house 
people.  Then  there  is  no  end  to  the  establishments 
that  turn  out  furniture,  musical  instruments,  electrical 
apparatus,  tools,  chemicals.  The  publishing  and  print- 
ing of  books  and  papers  is  also  a  large  industry ;  and  the 
brewing  of  beers,  the  refining  of  sugar  and  molasses,  the 
preparing  of  spices  and  coffees  are  probably  the  largest 
enterprises  of  all. 

In  Manhattan  the  majority  of  these  manufactures  are 
carried  on  in  small  buildings ;  or,  if  large,  they  are  so  far 
from  the  usually  frequented  avenues  and  streets  that 
they  are  not  remarked.  The  west  side  of  the  city,  below 
Thirty-Fourth  Street,  is  dotted  with  them ;  there  are 
many  scattered  through  the  east  side  near  the  river; 
and  there  are  others  to  the  north  along  the  Harlem. 
The  Brooklyn  water-front  again  is  lined  with  factories, 
Long  Island  City  has  many  of  them,  and  Staten  Island 
is  almost  girdled  by  them.  Everywhere  in  the  sparsely 
populated  boroughs  of  Greater  New  York  that  have 
water-fronts,  factories  have  sprung  up.  They  are  not 
welcomed  by  any  except  the  persistent  money-getters, 


90  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

and,  in  fact,  they  are  fast  making  New  York  unfit  for 
residence ;  but  they  must  be  counted  in  summing  up  the 
city's  resources.  And  so,  for  practical  purposes,  the  great 
manufacturing  interests  on  Long  Island,  along  the 
Hudson,  and  over  in  North  Jersey  in  towns  such  as 
Newark  and  Paterson,  must  be  reckoned  with  as  part 
of  the  city's  wealth  and  business.  That  reckoning,  once 
more,  must  be  made  in  billions,  for  the  million-dollar 
mark  is  not  sufficient  to  indicate  it. 

And  we  have  not  yet  so  much  as  thought  of  the  vast 
retail  trade  of  the  up-town  districts.  This  is  not  merely 
the  supplying  of  the  immediate  wants  of  one  section  of 
New  York  by  the  people  in  another  section  of  New  York. 
It  is  something  more  than  selling  or  trading  with  one's 
self  or  one's  towns-people.  The  retail  trade  of  New  York 
reaches  to  all  quarters  of  the  United  States.  What  it 
comes  to  in  figures  would  be  difficult  to  determine  with 
accuracy ;  but  we  shall  not  be  far  from  the  truth  if  we  con- 
tinue with  our  designation  of  billions.  The  word  seems 
to  smack  of  pretension  or  extravagance,  but  it  is 
neither  the  one  thing  nor  the  other ;  it  is  the  simple  fact. 
New  York  numbers  its  inhabitants  by  the  millions,  and 
it  must  have  something  higher  than  that  whereby  to 
count  its  capital  and  its  earnings. 

Whether  it  is  necessary  that  all  the  vast  business 
interests  of  the  metropolis,  and  of  the  country  at  large, 
should  have  offices  down  town  under  the  lee  of  Wall 


Pl.  19.  —  Terminal  Buildings  from  West  Street 


DOWN   TOWN  91 

Street,  is  a  question  that  needs  little  discussion.  No  doubt 
many  of  them  would  not  suffer  extinction  if  they  had 
offices  up  town  in  the  region  of  Forty-Second  Street. 
The  New  York  Times  and  The  Herald  have  proved,  at  least, 
that  there  is  no  absolute  necessity  for  newspaper  enter- 
prises being  located  on  Printing  House  Square;  and  as 
much  might  be  proved  regarding  the  offices  of  shipping 
agents,  insurance  men,  lawyers,  and  many  others  who 
now  crowd  the  lower  city  districts. 

There  is,  however,  an  argument  for  the  other  side. 
It  is  a  part  of  a  banker's  capital  that  he  hail  from  Wall 
Street  and  have  an  office  there,  just  as  it  is  a  hall-mark 
of  quality,  an  insignia  of  respectability,  for  a  jeweler  to 
send  his  circulars  out  into  the  country  from  Maiden  Lane. 
Moving  up  town,  to  many  of  these  houses,  would  spell 
ruin,  —  or  at  least  they  so  regard  it.  It  would  be  a  losing 
of  identity.  Besides,  there  is  business  convenience  in 
close  quarters  and  short  distances.  A  central  hive  saves 
time  and  energy.  And  so  strong  has  the  down-town  in- 
stinct become  that  one  might  remove  the  very  hive  itself 
and  still  the  bees  would  swarm  on  the  platform  where  it 
formerly  stood. 

Of  course  the  come  and  go  of  the  throng  each  morning 
and  evening,  the  push  and  surge  and  scramble  along  the 
fence  rail,  are  caused  by  the  endeavor  to  get  in  or  out  of 
the  hive.  Of  course,  again,  the  necessity  for  accommoda- 
tions for  the  tenants  of  the  hive  has  made  the  ground  space 


92  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

of  the  lower  city  phenomenally  valuable.  So  great  be- 
came the  value  of  that  land  a  few  years  ago,  that  a  bet- 
ter utilization  of  it  in  buildings  grew  to  be  a  necessity. 
Out  of  that  necessity  came  the  much  used  and  much 
abused  sky-scraper,  the  tall  building  that  everyone 
scolds  about  and  yet  finds  too  useful  to  get  on  without 
—  the  one  architectural  success  in  which  America  is 
wholly  original  and  beholden  to  none. 

But  the  sky-scraper  is  of  so  much  importance  in  New 
York  to-day  that  it  requires  a  chapter  of  its  own. 


Pl.  20.  —  Little  Flatiron,  Maiden  Lane 


SKY-SCRAPERS 


Pl.  VI.     building  a  sky-scraper 


5l3qAH.02~Y>12    A   OMiaJIUa  -  .IV  .jR 


CHAPTER  VI 

SKY-SCKAPERS 

The  story  is  told  of  a  Brahmin  philosopher,  sitting 
with  a  friend  in  his  walled  garden,  and  jesting  over  the 
smallness  of  the  enclosure.  It  was  not  very  long  nor  yet 
again  very  wide;  but  how  deep  down  it  was,  and  what 
wonderful  height  it  had !  The  depth  beneath  and  the 
space  overhead  were  unavailable  possessions  to  him.  He 
smiled  at  what  he  owned  yet  could  not  grasp  or  utilize. 

But  land  values  have  radically  changed  in  modern 
days,  especially  in  America.  Any  one  who  owns  a  small 
plot  of  ground  in  a  large  American  city  need  not  smile  over 
its  height  and  depth,  for  those  are  now  very  valuable  dimen- 
sions. They  can  both  be  turned  to  profit,  turned  into  very 
tangible  assets.  The  clever  modern  has  found  a  way  of 
not  only  digging  in  the  earth,  but  of  rising  into  the  air 
on  pinions  of  steel  and  sustaining  his  altitude  almost 
indefinitely  in  time  and  in  space. 

It  is  a  very  cramped  and  limited  region  of  New  York 
that  lies  below  the  City  Hall.  It  has  always  lacked 
elbow-room ;  it  has  always  been  crowded.  The  mere  sur- 
face dimensions  of  it  were  exhausted  years  ago.  That, 
however,  did  not  stop  the  influx  of  people  seeking  office 

95 


96  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

room  there.  To  accommodate  the  continued  and  increased 
inrush  from  year  to  year  various  expedients  were  put 
forth.  At  first  the  land-owners  began  burrowing  in  the 
ground,  fitting  up  quarters  below  the  curb  line,  —  quarters 
where  business  was  carried  on  only  by  artificial  light  at 
noonday.  That  proved,  however,  scarcely  a  temporary 
relief.  It  was  wholly  inadequate.  Following  this  ex- 
pedient, or  perhaps  contemporary  with  it,  there  was  an 
adding  of  stories  upon  the  old  foundations  —  an  increase 
from,  say,  four  to  six  and  eight  floors.  But  there  were 
limitations  to  that.  People  would  not  climb  flights  of 
stairs;  and,  again,  brick  could  not  be  laid  upon  brick 
indefinitely.  The  first  objection  was,  in  a  measure,  done 
away  with  by  the  invention  of  the  passenger  elevator. 
From  1860  to  1880  steam  and  hydraulic  elevators  were 
used,  but  it  was  not  until  about  1888  that  electric  ele- 
vators came  into  vogue. 

With  the  coming  of  the  elevator  the  eight-story  build- 
ings began  to  pay  better  in  their  top  floors  than  in  their 
middle  or  lower  ones.  ''High  livers,"  so  called,  preferred 
the  light  and  air  up  aloft.  Everything  began  to  rise  with 
the  elevator  —  buildings,  prices,  ambitions,  expectations ; 
but  still  the  right  planning  of  the  modern  office  building 
had  not  been  reached.  The  eight-story  or  ten-story  struc- 
ture of  marble  or  brick  was  too  heavy,  too  bulky  in  the 
walls.  As  the  height  increased  the  foundation  walls 
had  to  be  thickened  proportionately.     To  spread  out  at 


SKY-SCRAPERS  97 

the  bottom  in  walls  was  to  lose  the  advantage  gained  in 
offices  at  the  top.  Again,  the  additional  number  of 
elevators  required  by  the  increased  number  of  occupants 
began  to  fill  up  space  and  lessen  the  available  floor  area. 
Iron  came  into  the  construction  and  was  used  for  beams ; 
iron  pillars  superseded  stone  pillars ;  the  bulk  in  the  lower 
walls  was  thus  slightly  cut  down.  Shortly  thereafter  an 
iron  core  to  carry  the  floors  was  used  on  the  inside  of 
masonry  walls,  and  a  double  construction  was  brought 
about.     Both  shell  and  core  were  self-sustaining. 

And  yet  this  new  plan  added  only  a  few  more  stories, 
and  left  the  larger  problem  still  unsolved.  The  walls  that 
had  to  bear  merely  their  own  weight  soon  began  to  thicken 
again  at  the  base  as  the  building  grew  in  height.  Brick, 
granite,  marble,  and  even  iron,  alone  or  in  combination, 
were  found  wanting.  After  a  certain  weight  was  put  upon 
them,  a  certain  height  was  gained,  there  came  a  danger 
line.  What  stronger,  more  durable,  less  bulky  material 
could  be  used  to  carry  into  the  region  of  twenty  stories? 
The  answer  came  back  in  plans  for  a  structure  of  steel  — 
something  following  the  general  design  of  a  bridge  truss 
standing  on  end  with  the  strain  so  adjusted  by  brace  and 
girder,  that  the  whole  weight  of  the  walls  and  floors  would 
be  finally  conducted  downward  by  post  and  beam  until 
brought  to  bear  upon  the  rock  foundations.  The  result 
of  the  plans  was  the  modern  sky-scraper. 

It  must  not  be  forgotten  that  necessity  was  the  mother 


98  THE  NEW   NEW   YORK 

that  invented  and  brought  forth  the  sky-scraper.  It  was  a 
device  at  first  to  utilize  small  plots  of  valuable,  heavily 
taxed  ground,  to  make  these  plots  not  only  more  valuable, 
but  more  remunerative  in  rents.  The  steel  construction 
is  now  used  on  large  plots  of  ground  because  it  has  been 
found  a  cheap  and  profitable  mode  of  building ;  but  that 
came  about  as  a  growth  from  the  original  idea.  In  its 
inception  it  was  designed  to  meet  a  more  positive  need,  to 
make  ten  rooms  where  only  one  was  before,  and  thus  to 
increase  revenue  and  render  tax  assessments  less  appalling. 
The  story  of  the  conception  and  the  building  of  the  first 
sky-scraper  in  New  York  will  illustrate  this. 

The  Tower  Building  on  lower  Broadway  was  the  initial 
steel  skeleton  building  erected  in  the  city,  and  its  architect 
was  Bradford  Lee  Gilbert.  It  was  put  up  in  1888-89  on  a 
plot  of  ground  twenty-one  and  a  half  feet  in  width. 
There  was  a  frontage  on  Broadway  of  that  width,  leading 
back  to  a  larger  space  on  New  Street.  Using  the  Broad- 
way frontage  as  a  mere  entrance  to  the  larger  premises 
at  the  back  was  an  extravagance  which  the  Tower 
Building  was  designed  to  do  away  with.  Mr,  Gilbert's 
plans  called  for  a  structure  of  thirteen  stories  (about  one 
hundred  and  sixty  feet  in  height)  to  stand  upon  this  space 
of  twenty-one  feet.  The  enclosing  walls  were  to  be  twelve 
inches  in  width  and  to  bear  no  weight.^     The  weight  of 

*  The  space  saved  by  these  walls  alone,  so  much  thinner  than  the 
previous  stone  construction,  afterward  amounted  to  $10,000  a  year  in 
rentals. 


Pl.  21.  —  Sky-scrapers  from  Brooklyx  Heights 


SKY-SCRAPERS  99 

the  walls  and  the  floors  was  to  be  transmitted  to  the  steel 
columns,  and  thus  passed  on  down  to  the  cement  foot- 
ings of  the  foundation.  Of  course  there  was  objection  to 
the  building  at  once.  Architects  declared  it  unsafe  and 
impracticable,  and  the  newspapers  said  the  plan  was 
''idiotic." 

''When  the  actual  construction  of  the  building  began," 
says  Mr.  Gilbert  in  a  New  York  Times  interview,  "my 
troubles  increased  tenfold.  The  mere  suggestion  of  a  build- 
ing 21^  feet  wide,  rising  to  the  height  of  160  feet  above 
its  footings,  filled  everybody  who  had  no  particular  concern 
in  the  matter,  with  alarm.  Finally  an  engineer  with  whom 
I  had  worked  for  many  years  came  to  me  with  a  protest. 
When  I  paid  no  attention  to  him,  he  wrote  to  the  owner. 
The  owner  came  to  me  with  the  letter.  He  was  afraid  the 
building  would  blow  over  and  that  he  would  be  subject 
to  heavy  damages.  My  personal  position  in  the  matter 
and  that  of  the  Building  Department  that  had  given  me 
the  permit,  never  seemed  to  strike  him  at  all.  Finally  I 
drew  out  my  strain  sheets,  showing  the  wind  bracings  from 
cellar  to  roof,  and  demonstrated  by  analysis  that  the  harder 
the  wind  blew  the  safer  the  building  would  be ;  as  under 
one  hundred  tons,  under  hurricane  pressure,  while  the 
wind  was  blowing  seventy  miles  an  hour,  the  structure 
was  cared  for  by  its  footings  and  was  safest.  .  .  . 

"This  seemed  to  satisfy  him  and  we  went  ahead.  One 
Sunday  morning,  when  the  walls  of  the  building  were 
ready  for  the  roof,  I  awoke  to  find  the  wind  blowing  a 
hurricane.  That  gale  is  a  matter  of  record  in  the  Weather 
Bureau.  With  a  friend,  who  had  implicit  faith  in  my 
plans,  I  went  down  town  to  the  sky-scraper.  A  crowd 
of  persons  who  expected  it  to  blow  over  stood  at  a  respect- 


100  THE  NEW   NEW    YORK 

ful  distance  to  watch  the  crash.  Janitors  and  watchmen 
in  adjoining  buildings  and  structures  across  the  street 
moved  out.  They  were  afraid  of  being  crushed  to  death, 
and  said  unpleasant  things  about  my  steel  building. 
I  secured  a  plumb-line  and  began  to  climb  the  ladders  that 
the  workmen  had  left  in  place  when  they  quit  work  the 
previous  evening.  My  friend  went  with  me  as  far  as  the 
tenth  story.  The  persons  who  looked  at  us  from  below 
called  us  fools.  When  I  reached  the  thirteenth  story, 
the  gale  was  so  fierce  I  could  not  stand  upright.  I  crawled 
on  my  hands  and  knees  along  the  scaffolding  and  dropped 
the  plumb-line.  There  was  not  the  slightest  vibration. 
The  building  stood  as  steady  as  a  rock  in  the  sea.  .  .  ."  ^ 

Since  1889  many  steel  buildings  have  towered  into  the 
air,  and  many  improvements  have  been  made  upon  the 
original  design.  To-day  the  sky-scraper  is  still  regarded 
as  the  best  means  of  making  heavily  taxed  land  profitable, 
though  that  idea  has  become  somewhat  merged  in  the 
general  value  of  the  building  principle.  The  New  Trinity 
Building  on  Broadway,  though  not  the  largest  nor  the 
highest  in  the  city,  is  a  good  modern  instance  of  the  finan- 

^  This  was  in  1889,  and  ten  years  later,  so  universal  was  the  acceptance 
of  the  steel-constructed  building,  that  the  original  model,  the  Tower 
Building,  had  become  ancient  history.  That  it  might  not  be  wholly 
forgotten,  the  Society  of  Architectural  Iron  Manufacturers  of  New  York 
placed  a  tablet  upon  the  building  to  commemorate  its  erection,  giving 
the  names  of  both  the  architect  and  the  construction  company  that 
built  it.  It  is  worthy  of  note  in  passing,  because  it  is  suggestive  of  the 
swift  transitions  taking  place  in  this  new  world,  that  the  marvelous 
sky-scraper  of  1889  is  already  doomed  to  be  torn  down  to  make  room 
for  a  greater  building,  a  greater  marvel. 


SKY-SCRAPERS  101 

cial  side  of  the  sky-scraper,  and  may  be  used  here  in  illus- 
tration. The  plot  of  ground  upon  which  it  stands  is  two 
hundred  and  sixty  feet  long,  with  forty  feet  of  frontage 
on  Broadway  and  forty-seven  feet  at  the  rear  on  Church 
Street.  This  land  alone,  before  the  erection  of  the  new 
building,  was  valued  at  $2,000,000.  What  is  more  to 
the  point,  it  was  taxed  at  that  valuation.  Under  our 
system  of  taxation,  taxes  are  not  levied  upon  the  income 
of  a  property,  but  upon  the  assessed  valuation  whether 
there  is  any  income  attached  or  not.  In  London,  for 
instance,  it  is  quite  the  reverse  of  this.  A  man  owning 
ground  on  Piccadilly  could  turn  it  into  a  cow-pasture  if 
he  would,  and  pay  taxes  on  its  income  as  a  cow-pasture ; 
but  if  he  held  the  same  amount  of  property  in  lower  New 
York,  he  would  have  to  pay  in  taxes  something  like  two 
per  cent  on  several  millions  of  dollars.  This  turn  of  the 
tax  would  bring  him  face  to  face  with  one  of,  say,  three 
propositions.  He  would  have  to  put  the  land  to  a  more 
profitable  use  than  pasturing  cows,  or  sell  it  to  someone 
who  could  so  employ  it,  or  pay  a  hundred  thousand 
dollars  or  more  a  year  for  the  privilege  of  defying  the 
inevitable. 

Our  foreign  friends,  who  greatly  wonder  why  we  cannot 
be  content  with  five-  or  six-story  buildings  in  the  lower 
city,  as  our  grandfathers  were,  fail  to  understand  our 
system  of  taxation,  fail  to  understand  that  the  tax  bill 
keeps  mounting  higher  with  increased  valuations,  and 


102  THE  NEW   NEW   YORK 

that  the  mcome  must  increase  to  meet  it.  The  tax  on  the 
ground  alone  of  the  Trinity  property  had  become  so 
enormous  that  the  income  of  the  old  structure  could  not 
meet  it.  Hence  the  old  came  down  and  the  new  went  up 
—  went  up  three  hundred  feet,  until  one  could,  from 
its  upper  stories,  look  down  on  the  spire  of  Trinity  Church, 
that  for  so  many  years  had  been  the  high  point  of  the 
city's  sky  line.  The  necessity  for  more  room,  the  neces- 
sity for  a  better  utilization  of  the  ground  space,  the  neces- 
sity for  more  rent  money  to  pay  increased  tax  bills,  all 
combined  to  bring  the  new  structure  into  existence. 

Between  two  and  three  millions  of  dollars  were  spent 
in  the  construction  of  the  New  Trinity  Building.  This, 
with  its  land  valued  at  two  millions,  raised  the  gross 
valuation  to  about  five  millions  of  dollars.  To  meet  the 
taxes  and  the  interest  charges  upon  this  sum  there  are  now 
some  twenty-one  stories  that  pay,  on  an  average,  twenty- 
three  thousand  dollars  annual  rental  for  each  story. 
The  ground  floor  alone  rents  for  seventy-five  thousand 
dollars  a  year.  A  pencil  and  the  back  of  an  envelope  will 
enable  anyone,  in  a  few  minutes,  to  figure  out  the  business 
success  of  the  enterprise.  Everything  sooner  or  later 
resolves  itself  into  a  matter  of  finance,  especially  in  New 
York;  and  things  must  ''pay,"  otherwise  they  will  not 
last  for  long. 

The  cost  of  these  huge  structures  makes  rapidity  in  con- 
struction something  of  a  necessity.    Five  millions  of  dollars 


Pl.  :.'_'.  —  W  OHKIXG  AT  Night  on  Foundations 


SKY-SCRAPERS  103 

drawing  interest  at  five  per  cent  means  a  quarter  of  a 
million  dollars  a  year ;  and  the  sooner  the  building  begins 
earning  rentals,  the  better  for  those  who  have  the  financial 
end  of  the  enterprise  to  carry.  Hence  the  speed  with  which 
the  average  sky-scraper  is  erected.  A  few  months  at  the 
most  is  often  sufficient  to  see  it  in  place,  fully  equipped, 
and  occupied.  This  speed  in  construction  is  greatly 
facilitated  by  the  peculiar  nature  of  the  building.  Once 
the  foundations  are  laid  the  erection  of  the  steel  frame 
is  merely  a  matter  of  bolting  and  riveting  so  many 
beams,  girders,  cantilevers,  and  brackets.  This  work  can 
usually  be  carried  on  in  many  places  at  the  same  time,  and 
large  forces  of  men  can  be  employed  in  day  and  night 
shifts.  So  it  is  that  there  is  some  truth  in  the  common 
exaggeration  that  sky-scrapers  are  put  up  overnight. 
One  can  actually  see  the  steel  platforms  grow  from  hour 
to  hour  as  they  lift  higher  and  higher  into  the  air. 

The  frame  of  steel  is  the  core  of  the  building.  It  is 
the  only  thing  that  bears  or  carries  any  weight.  Every- 
thing that  is  put  on  afterwards  is  fastened  to  or  hangs 
from  this  skeleton  —  with  the  possible  exception  of  one 
or  two  stories  at  the  bottom  which,  in  their  walls,  may 
bear  their  own  weight.  The  upper  walls,  whether  of 
brick,  terra-cotta,  cement,  or  stone,  depend  from  the 
steel  structure  to  which  they  are  attached  by  brackets. 
They  may  give  the  impression  of  being  self-supporting, 
they  may  beguile  one  into  thinking  that  back  of  the  walls 


104  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

is  solid  masonry;  but  they  are  only  so  much  shield  to 
keep  out  the  weather.  Just  so  with  the  floors,  windows, 
balconies,  cornices,  railings,  roofs.  They  are  not  sup- 
ported by  the  walls  from  below,  but  by  steel  brackets 
or  trusses  from  within.  With  such  a  novel  building 
principle  it  is  possible  to  place  the  outer  walls  on  the 
twentieth  story  before  those  of  the  first  story  are 
started,  or  to  put  up  the  roof  before  the  window  frames 
are  in. 

The  foundations  are  the  vital  spots  of  the  building. 
Hence  the  necessity  for  their  being  sunk  deep  to  bed-rock. 
Some  of  them  go  down  nearly  a  hundred  feet  underground. 
This  is  compulsory  because  lower  New  York  is  underlaid 
with  beds  of  sand  and  ooze  from  ten  to  eighty  feet  thick. 
The  caisson  method  of  working  through  them  is  employed. 
Air-tight,  bottomless  boxes  are  driven  through  the  drift 
(the  water  being  kept  out  by  compressed  air)  to  bed-rock 
and  afterward  filled  up  with  cement.  It  is  upon  these 
cement  piers  that  the  columns  of  the  sky-scraper  rest.  The 
foundations  being  difficult  to  build  are  often  items  of 
great  expense,  costing  sometimes  half  a  million  dollars 
for  a  single  building.  The  weight  they  bear  is  enormous. 
The  steel  structure  of  bolted  plates  may  look  light  and 
frail  at  a  distance,  but  some  of  the  larger  buildings  have 
upwards  of  twenty  thousand  tons  of  steel  in  them,  which 
is  by  no  means  an  insignificant  figure.  The  walls, 
cornices,  and  roof  differ  in  weight  according  to  the  mate- 


SKY-SCRAPERS  105 

rials  used ;  and,  inasmuch  as  they  have  only  to  hold  on, 
they  are  not  a  great  problem  to  the  builder,  though  of 
importance  to  the  architect. 

There  are  other  figures,  used  in  connection  with  these 
buildings  and  their  details,  more  amazing  than  those  of 
cost  or  foundation  or  weight.  The  newspapers  love  to 
juggle  with  them,  and  to  show  by  pictorial  illustration  how 
much  higher  are  the  steel  structures  than,  say,  an  ocean- 
steamer  placed  on  end ;  or  to  figure  out  how  many  acres 
of  ground  their  floor  space  would  cover,  or  how  many 
scrubwomen  are  required  to  keep  the  windows  clean. 
The  very  high  buildings  are  the  ones  that  usually  bristle 
with  these  statistics.  The  Singer  Building,  for  instance, 
in  addition  to  having  its  foundations  ninety-two  feet 
below  the  curb,  rises  above  the  curb  in  forty-two  stories 
to  a  height  of  six  hundred  and  twelve  feet.  Its  outer 
walls  are  of  terra-cotta,  metal,  and  glass  —  great  areas 
of  glass.  It  is  more  of  a  tower  than  a  building;  yet, 
even  so,  it  has  over  400,000  square  feet  of  floor  space. 
In  sheer  altitude  the  tower  of  the  Metropolitan  Building 
on  Madison  Square  goes  beyond  it.  This  is  some  seven 
hundred  feet  in  height,  rising  in  fifty  stories,  far  above 
its  own  main  building,  —  rising,  indeed,  like  a  beacon 
tower  or  light-house  above  all  New  York.  There  is  no 
reason  to  think,  however,  that  it  will  long  retain  its 
preeminence.  A  thousand  feet  are  almost  as  easily 
attained  as    seven   hundred.     It    is    not   a   question   of 


106  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

engineering,  but  of  finance,  that  is  to  be  considered.^ 
If  still  higher  buildings  will  pay,  they  will  probably  be 
built. 

In  office  capacity  the  high  towers  are  not  so  remark- 
able as  the  buildings  of  more  bulk  and  less  altitude. 
The  City  Investing  Company  Building  is  only  four 
hundred  feet  in  height  and  has  only  thirty-six  stories, 
but  its  floor  area  is  686,000  feet,  and  there  were  seven- 
teen thousand  tons  of  steel  used  in  its  construction.  In 
sheer  ''bigness"  the  Terminal  Buildings  on  Courtlandt 
and  Church  streets  go  beyond  this.  The  two  buildings 
stand  linked  together  by  a  bridge  like  Siamese  twins 
and  are  twenty-one  stories  in  height.  Their  foundations 
are  seventy-five  feet  below  the  curb,  and  in  this  deep  ex- 
cavation are  placed  the  terminal  stations  of  the  Hudson 
and  Manhattan  Railroad,  which  operates  the  Hudson 
tunnels  in  connection  with  a  subway  on  the  west  side 
of  New  York.  The  superstructure  required  twenty- 
six  thousand  tons  of  steel  and  provides  eighteen  acres  of 
floor  space,  four  thousand  offices,  thirty-nine  passenger 
elevators  (twenty-two  of  them  express  cars),  five  thousand 
windows,  thirty  thousand  electric  lights;  and  no  one 
knows  how  many  janitors,  engineers,  firemen,  locksmiths, 

^  There  has  been  a  proposal  recently  made  by  the  Building  Code  Re- 
vision Commission  that  a  limitation  of  300  feet  for  a  sixty-foot  street 
and  135  feet  for  a  forty-five-foot  street  be  imposed  upon  the  high  build- 
ings; but  this,  if  adopted,  will  not  check  the  sky-scraper,  except  on  the 
alleys  and  very  narrow  streets. 


Pl.  23.  —  Among  the  Tall  Buildings 


SKY-SCRAPERS  107 

glaziers,  painters,  plumbers,  to  keep  it  running  properly. 
It  called  in  all  the  trades  to  build  it  and  needs  a  great  many 
of  them  to  continue  its  existence.  It  might  be  added  in 
parenthesis  that  the  services  of  a  financier  are  also  needed 
to  look  after  the  items  of  rents  and  repairs  —  especially 
the  latter.  The  wear  and  tear  upon  a  sky-scraper  are 
quite  as  astonishing  as  the  other  things  in  connection 
with  it. 

Almost  all  of  these  high  buildings  are  supplied  with  the 
conveniences  of  a  city,  and  one  can  live  in  them  indefi- 
nitely without  going  out  for  food,  clothing,  or  lodging. 
Besides  offices,  they  contain  stores,  clubs,  restaurants, 
bachelor  apartments,  barber  shops,  cigar  and  news  stands, 
boot-cleaning  establishments,  baths,  safe-deposit  vaults, 
roof  gardens  —  everything  except  vaudeville,  and  even 
that  is  a  possibility  of  the  near  future.  Moreover,  each 
one  of  them  contains  the  inhabitants  of  a  city.  In  the 
larger  ones  there  are  from  six  to  ten  thousand  tenants; 
and  from  50,000  to  100,000  people  pass  in,  or  through, 
or  up  and  down  them  in  a  single  day.^ 

Of  course,  all  the  tenants  and  their  thousands  of  clients 
and  customers  require  gas  and  electricity,  private  tele- 
phones, hot  and  cold  water,  electric  fans  in  summer,  and 
steam  heat  in  winter.  The  mechanical  devices  for  supply- 
ing these  are  ingenious  to  the  last  degree.  For  instance, 
in  the  matter  of  heat,  where  so  many  men  have  so  many 

*  The  new  Whitehall  Building  promises  to  surpass  even  these  figures. 


108  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

opinions,  there  is  a  device  in  the  newer  office  buildings 
whereby  each  room  is  supphed  with  a  heat  indicator,  and 
all  one  needs  to  do  is  to  turn  the  pointer  to  the  required 
number,  60,  70,  or  80  degrees  Fahrenheit,  to  have  the 
heat  at  that  temperature  in  a  few  minutes.  As  for  such 
other  features  of  life  as  meals,  messenger  boys,  cabs,  and 
service  in  general,  one  touches  a  button  as  in  a  hotel  or 
a  house. 

If  there  is  one  thing  above  another  that  makes  the  sky- 
scraper possible,  it  is  the  elevator.  Without  it  the  in- 
habitants of  the  top  stories  would  have  to  climb  the 
mountain  each  morning,  and  descend  it  each  evening  — 
something  no  man  or  superman  could  or  would  do.  The 
elevator  is  the  central  pulsing  artery  of  the  whole  steel 
structure ;  and  it  is  a  very  rapid  pulse  in  the  bargain. 
For  the  first  ten  stories  you  move  slowly  if  you  get  into 
the  local  elevator  stopping  at  each  floor;  but,  if  you  are 
bound  twenty-five  stories  up,  you  travel  by  the  express 
elevator  and  the  first  stop  is  perhaps  the  eighteenth 
or  twentieth  floor.  You  enter  the  car  and  when  it  starts 
perhaps  there  is  a  feeling  that  your  stomach  is  not 
accompanying  you,  so  rapidly  does  the  car  get  under 
w^ay.  When  the  car  stops,  it  is  again  so  suddenly  that  you 
feel  as  though  the  top  of  your  head  were  continuing 
the  journey  without  you.  When  you  go  down  again,  the 
top  of  your  head  threatens  to  part  company  once  more; 
but  you  are  landed  at  the  street  entrance  as  softly  as 


SKY-SCRAPERS  109 

though  borne  upon  zephyrs  and  clouds  —  thanks,  perhaps, 
to  the  air  cushion. 

The  elevator  is  indeed  the  genius  of  the  sky-scraper 
as  it  is  the  incarnation  of  the  get-there-quick  idea.  Rapid 
transit  never  had  a  more  exemplary  exponent.  It  works 
swiftly,  silently,  and  to  all  appearances  uncomplainingly 
and  everlastingly.  Each  sky-scraper  has  from  six  to 
thirty  of  these  shuttles  that  fly  backward  and  forward, 
taking  up  and  setting  down  passengers ;  and  in  the  course 
of  the  day  carrying  many  thousands  of  people.  Nothing 
is  more  amazing  to  the  stranger  in  down-town  New  York 
than  to  see  the  cool  and  yet  swift  way  that  tenants  of  the 
high  buildings  load  themselves  into  these  steel  cages. 
There  is  nothing  said  but  ''Up"  or  ''Down"  by  the  ele- 
vator boy;  and  nothing  said  but  "Tenth"  or  "Thirty- 
Second"  or  some  other  floor  number,  by  the  passenger; 
but  everyone  understands,  steps  lively,  shrinks  when  the 
elevator  is  crowded,  expands  when  it  is  empty,  and  makes 
as  little  of  a  nuisance  of  himself  as  possible.  If  it  were 
not  for  this  perfect  understanding  of  sky-scraper  machinery 
and  the  recognized  ethics  of  the  crowd,  there  would  be 
instant  confusion.  Such  high  buildings  as  the  Singer,  the 
Park  Row,  the  St.  Paul,  the  Trust  Company  of  America, 
use  elevators  as  a  necessity  rather  than  a  convenience; 
and  there  is  required  some  concerted  action  on  the  part  of 
the  passengers  to  make  them  successful. 

Not  in  lower  New  York   alone  do  the  tall  buildings 


110  THE   NEW  NEW  YORK 

with  their  swift  elevators  crop  out,  though  they  are  more 
concentrated  there  than  elsewhere  in  the  city.  All  over 
the  borough  of  Manhattan  they  are  to  be  seen.  They 
are  not  only  expedients  to  utilize  extra-valuable  real 
estate,  but  are  in  themselves  cheap  and  durable  buildings 
and  ordinarily  profitable  investments.'  The  steel  skeleton 
is  to-day  used  in  almost  all  the  large  hotels,  apartment 
houses,  clubhouses,  printing  shops,  department  stores, 
wholesale  houses,  and  even  factories.  From  the  Battery 
to  Harlem  and  beyond  these  tower-like  buildings  keep 
breaking  above  the  whilom  sky  line  like  jonquils  above 
the  grass  of  a  spring  lawn.  The  parks  of  the  city  are 
surrounded  by  them.  Union  and  Madison  squares,  with 
the  Plaza,  are  dominated  by  them,  Broadway,  dwindling 
away  into  the  north,  still  has  echoes  of  them ;  and  Fifth 
Avenue,  with  its  twin  pylons,  the  St.  Regis  and  the 
Gotham,  already  in  place,  will  soon  become  a  canyon 
like  Broad  Street  or  lower  Broadway. 

Everywhere  they  are  safe,  serviceable,  absolutely 
necessary  buildings;  and  it  may  be  added  that  eventu- 
ally people  will  find  them  not  wanting  in  beauty.  Just 
now  many  of  them  seem  to  stand  like  guideposts,  showing 
where  and  how  the  city  is  to  be  built,  and  what  the  level 
of  its  new  roofs.  Naturally  they  look  out  of  scale,  and 
very   much   too    high   when    compared    with    the   older 

*  The  Baltimore  fire  and  the  San  Francisco  earthquake  proved  the 
steel  building  far  safer  and  more  lasting  under  storm  and  stress  than 
either  brick  or  stone. 


Pl.  24.  —  Post  Office  and  City  Hall  Park 


SKY-SCRAPERS  111 

buildings;  but  when  the  empty  spaces  in  between  are 
filled,  the  Flatiron  and  the  Times  Building,  with  the 
Metropolitan  Life  and  the  Plaza  Hotel,  will  not  appear 
out  of  proportion.  Tremendous  in  scale  they  are, 
certainly;  but  then  that  is  the  New  York  that  is  to  be. 


THE   NEW    CITY 


Pl.  VII.  -new   YORK   TIMES   BUILDING 


OHICIJlUa    23MIT    >iMOY    W3H       .IIV  .j4 


CHAPTER  VII 

THE  NEW  CITY 

The  steel  structure  has  not  gone  on  its  way  soaring  into 
the  empyrean  without  being  challenged,  criticised,  and 
denounced.  Every  Frenchman  that  comes  to  us  shrugs 
his  shoulders  overthe  "skee-scrapaire,"  and  looks  unthink- 
able things,  though  he  may  say  nothing;  our  English 
friends  are  usually  frank  enough  to  assure  us  that  we  are 
architecturally  demented ;  and  even  Madame  Waddington 
and  Mr.  James,  one-time  Americans,  return  to  us  after 
many  years  to  tell  us  that  the  high  buildings  are  "hideous." 
That  is  not  the  worst  of  it.  Many  New  Yorkers  entirely 
agree  with  them,  and  can  find  nothing  good  to  say  of  the 
new  city.  They  talk  much  of  the  sordid  and  commercial 
spirit  (and  there  is  much  to  be  said  against  it),  they  speak 
of  the  destruction  of  the  old  things,  —  old  streets,  houses, 
churches,  graveyards,  —  and  they  hark  back  a  great 
deal  to  the  old  city  and  the  good  old  times. 

They  have  always  done  so,  in  the  past  as  in  the  present, 
quite  ignoring  the  fact  that  time  was  never  so  old  and 
never  so  good  as  just  now.  There  has  ever  been  an  objec- 
tion to  both  the  innovator  and  the  innovation.     People 

115 


116  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

become  attached  to  things,  to  conditions,  to  environ- 
ments, and  they  dislike  any  disturbance  of  the  status  quo. 
It  is  not  that  the  things  are  necessarily  good  or  bad,  but 
that  they  are,  that  they  exist,  and  that  we  have  become 
accustomed  to  them.  Instinctively  we  love  the  broken 
path,  and  fall  into  ways  of  acting  and  methods  of  thinking 
from  which  we  would  not  be  jostled  in  the  name  of  change 
or  variety  or  progress.  Mr.  James,  returning  to  New 
York  after  twenty  years,  misses  what  he  left  when  he  went 
away,  and  wonders  that  the  city  has  changed.  During  his 
absence  he  has  been  accustomed,  perhaps,  to  the  streets  of 
London,  and  he  is  somewhat  surprised  to  find  those  of 
New  York  so  unlike  them.  But  what  came  he  forth  to  see, 
a  conventional  city,  a  model  of  regularity,  a  place  where 
people  carry  on  the  affair  of  living  as  becomes  a  luxurious 
upper  class?  Why  was  it  to  be  supposed  that  history 
would  repeat  itself  and  produce  on  this  continent,  under 
entirely  different  conditions,  another  Vienna  or  Paris? 
Why  is  it  that  people  seek  here  the  Place  de  la  Concorde,  or 
the  Ringstrasse,  or  Trafalgar  Square?  Nothing  in  our 
history  or  our  social  state  or  our  commerce  has  called  for 
such  places;  and  yet,  having  seen  them  elsewhere, 
people  think  them  necessary  parts  of  every  city  and 
marvel  that  New  York  lacks  them. 

It  should  be  insisted  upon  again  that  New  York  is  not 
primarily  a  place  of  residence,  nor  a  center  of  govern- 
ment ;  but  a  city  of  commerce.     In  Paris  people  live  over 


Pl.  25.  —  Looking  down  Madison  Avenue 


THE   NEW  CITY  117 

the  shops  in  the  busiest  streets  of  the  city;  and,  at  best, 
the  exclusively  residential  portion  along  the  Champs  Ely- 
sees,  and  in  the  region  of  the  Arc  de  Triomphe,  is  neither 
very  extensive  nor  very  far  removed  from  the  Boulevard 
des  Capucines  and  the  Avenue  de  I'Opera.  Again,  the 
Strand  and  Piccadilly  and  Mayfair  seem  to  be  one, 
and  even  the  Bank  district  of  London  is  not  wholly 
deserted  of  houses  where  people  live.  But  not  so  New 
York.  Its  people,  perhaps  unconsciously,  recognize 
that  it  is  not  a  place  to  live  in,  and  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands doing  business  there  live  out  of  it,  have  homes  on 
Long  Island  or  in  Westchester  or  over  in  New  Jersey, 
and  come  to  the  city  each  morning  and  leave  it  again  each 
evening.  Even  those  who  stay  in  town  and  have  homes 
therein  try  to  put  as  much  distance  as  possible  between 
their  houses  and  their  offices.  Below  Canal  Street,  and 
practically  below  Union  Square  on  either  side  of  Broad- 
way running  south,  there  are  business  buildings  only.  No 
one  lives  there  except  care-takers  and  their  families, 
perched  upon  the  roofs  of  the  high  buildings,  or  occupying 
quarters  in  the  basement.  The  things  that  make  for 
pleasure,  for  comfort  of  family  or  home,  for  restful  scene 
and  quiet  stroll,  are  not  wanted  there ;  they  would,  in  fact, 
be  in  the  way  and  more  or  less  of  a  hindrance.  The  lower 
city  is  a  shop  or  office,  is  fitted  up  solely  with  an  eye  to 
trade,  and  is  given  over  wholly  to  business. 

The  residential  section  of  New  York  has  been  pushed 


118  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

farther  north  year  by  year  until  now,  with  some  excep- 
tions, such  as  the  Washington  Square  region  and  its  adjoin- 
ing side  streets,  the  southern  line  is  drawn  at,  say,  Twenty- 
Third  Street.  There  is  a  tendency  to  gather  east  and  west 
about  the  Central  Park  or  along  the  Riverside  Drive. 
Of  course,  on  the  extreme  sides  of  the  lower  city,  both 
east  and  west,  there  are  vast  tenement-house  districts 
thickly  populated;  but  these  are  not,  in  any  general 
sense  of  the  phrase,  ''the  residential  portions"  of  a  city. 
Moreover,  those  things  that  Mr.  James  feels  the  lack  of  in 
New  York,  he  would  not  expect  to  find  in  the  lower  quar- 
ters of  London  or  Paris.  The  slums  are  not  the  places 
in  any  cities  that  are  pointed  out  as  restful  or  homelike 
or  samples  of  civic  beauty. 

Even  in  the  best  quarters  along  the  east  side  of  the 
Central  Park  our  French  and  English  friends  will  find 
nothing  that  reminds  them  of  the  square  houses  of  Hyde 
Park,  or  the  monotonous  gray-stones  of  the  Champs 
Elysees.  Time  was  when  the  streets  of  upper  New  York 
wore  a  dull  garment  of  chocolate-brown,  and  were  as  sedate 
and  as  uniform  as  the  spirit  of  1850  was  prosaic.  But  all 
that  has  largely  disappeared  with  the  new  era,  and  in  its 
place  there  are  infinitely  varied  houses  of  brick,  stone,  and 
marble.  The  great  wealth  of  the  city  is  throwing  off  an 
ornate  efflorescence  in  its  up-town  houses,  just  as  the  com- 
mercial wealth  of  Florence  centuries  ago  reared  splendid 
palaces  along  the  Arno ;  and  just  as  that  of  Buda-Pesth 


^I'li-iil 


Pl.  2G.  —  Metropolitan  Museum  and  Eighty-Second  Street 


THE   NEW  CITY  119 

or  Bucharest  is  doing  to-day  in  its  florid  rendering  of  the 
art  nouveau.  It  is  picturesque  and  quite  appropriate  to 
the  commercial  center  of  the  western  continent ;  but  it  is 
not  at  all  like  the  picturesque  of  Whistler's  London  or 
Balzac's  Paris.  That,  it  seems,  is  the  chief  grievance  of 
our  critics.  The  city  is  not  like  other  cities,  therefore  it 
must  be  very  bad.  '^ Hideous"  is  a  word  that  seems  to 
apply  exclusively  to  things  modern;  and  when  the  old 
things  were  new  things,  undoubtedly  it  was  applied  to 
them,  too. 

A  city  or  a  nation  in  its  art  should  represent  itself,  — 
its  people,  its  industries,  its  life,  —  and  should  do  so 
sincerely  and  sanely.  There  could  be  neither  honesty 
nor  common  sense  in  erecting  the  towers  of  Westminster 
down  town  in  New  York,  or  the  Madeleine  or  St.  Peter's 
up  town.  We  already  have  enough  and  to  spare  of  these 
imitations.  The  Giralda  tower  of  the  Madison  Square 
Garden,  for  instance,  is  an  attempt  to  plant  the  old  in  the 
new;  and  yet  what  purpose  does  it  fulfill?  It  has  at  its 
top  neither  bells  nor  clock  nor  muezzin  to  call  to  prayer, 
nor  at  its  base  any  chapel,  church,  or  sanctuary  in  which  to 
pray.  Unlike  its  Seville  original  it  is  only  ornamental, 
and  has  not  the  saving  grace  of  being  useful.  However, 
it  is  perhaps  justifiable  on  the  plea  that  it  dominates  a 
place  of  amusement  and  is  what  it  was  designed  to  be, 
"a  drawing  feature."  But  how  or  in  what  way  does  it 
represent  New  York  or  its  people?     And  what   does  it 


120  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

express  in  art  more  than  a  certain  eclectic  cleverness  in 
its  designer? 

On  the  contrary,  the  vilified  Flatiron,  facing  on  the 
same  open  square,  does  represent  the  commercial  spirit 
of  New  York,  whether  people  like  their  commercialism 
flung  in  their  faces  in  that  way  or  not.  It  stands  for  com- 
mon sense,  and  is  a  very  proper  utilization  of  a  most 
valuable  triangle  of  ground  —  one  of  the  most  valuable 
in  the  upper  city.  And  it  is  not  unjust  in  proportions, 
nor  wanting  in  fine  angle  lines  and  sky  lines ;  while  seen 
from  upper  Fifth  Avenue  through  the  mist  of  evening 
it  is  a  wonder  of  color,  light,  and  shade.  Of  course  any 
dog  can  be  given  a  bad  name,  and  the  Twenty-Third 
Street  building  was  not  improved  in  public  esteem  by 
being  called  a  flatiron,  nor  again  by  being  likened  to  an 
ocean  steamer  with  all  Broadway  in  tow.  But  the  smile 
and  the  laugh  should  not  confuse  our  estimate.  The 
Flatiron  is  a  representative  New  York  building;  and, 
while  making  no  great  ornamental  splurge,  it  fills  its 
place  admirably,  and  will  be  considered  not  the  least 
successful  unit  in  the  colossal  quadrangle  that  will  some 
day  hem  in  Madison  Square. 

The  Flatiron  and  the  New  York  Times  Building  stand 
apart,  each  occupying  a  given  space  of  ground  and  un- 
related to  other  buildings  by  party  walls.  The  street  is 
their  boundary  on  every  side  and  they  are  complete  in 
themselves.     They  do  not  yet  look  quite  as  they  should, 


THE   NEW   CITY  121 

because  standing  isolated;  but,  when  the  adjoining 
blocks  and  the  streets  around  them  are  built  up  with 
sky-scrapers,  the  relationship  will  be  apparent.  Yet 
even  in  their  present  surroundings  they  are  seen  at  a 
better  advantage  than  the  majority  of  the  new  buildings. 
Many  of  them  rise  to  twenty  stories  with  only  the  street 
wall  in  presentable  shape.  The  other  three  faces  remain, 
as  a  general  thing,  in  a  loose-end  condition,  waiting  for 
the  owners  on  either  side  to  erect  structures  and  thus  shut 
out  from  view  raw  partitions  and  unfinished  surfaces.  It 
is  in  this  condition  that  people  see  so  many  of  the  down- 
town buildings,  and  upon  the  impulse  of  the  moment  break 
out  in  superlatives  about  the  ''hideousness"  of  the  new 
city. 

This  judging  of  the  picture  by  the  half-finished  sketch, 
and  without  sufficient  imagination  to  see  the  work  com- 
pleted, results  in  many  misconceptions.  And  then, 
again,  in  such  swiftly  constructed  buildings,  planned  in  a 
month  and  put  up  in  less  than  six  months,  there  must  be 
necessarily  much  that  is  deficient,  false,  or  hopelessly 
bad.  It  could  not  be  otherwise.  And  still  again,  the 
architect  has  been  confronted  with  new  demands,  which 
it  has  been  necessary  to  meet  in  new  ways.  There  have 
been  arbitrary  and  exacting  conditions  imposed  by  the 
financial  and  architectural  phases  of  the  new  building  — 
conditions  that  have  never  arisen  before  in  architecture 
or  in  building. 


122  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

A  condition  placed  upon  the  sky-scraper  at  the  start 
was  that  it  should  rise  vertically,  for  practically  its  whole 
height,  without  receding  from  or  protruding  over  its  street 
line.  The  building  laws  of  the  city  would  not  permit  of 
the  latter,  and  the  value  of  space  would  not  allow  of  the 
former.  To  recede  from  the  line  with  stories  or  columns 
or  windows,  or  to  taper  away  at  the  top  in  any  form, 
would  be  to  lose  the  very  space  sought  to  be  gained. 
Of  course,  the  insistence  upon  the  vertical  line  from 
street  to  cornice  meant  an  enforced  monotony  in  the  wall 
space.  How  should  the  architect  overcome  that  diffi- 
culty ? 

Nothing  in  the  architecture  of  the  past  seemed  of  any 
practical  service  in  planning  this  new  building.  In 
fact,  historic  precedent  was,  and  still  is,  something  of  a 
stumbling  block  in  sky-scraper  construction.  The  allur- 
ing Greek  temple  with  its  w^aste  of  space  in  projecting 
portico  and  columns,  the  cathedral  with  tapering  spires 
and  towers,  the  pyramid  with  receding  platforms,  were 
not  the  proper  •  models.  Breaking  the  structure  into 
three  pieces  on  the  principle  of  a  column,  with  foundation, 
wall  space,  and  cornice  corresponding  to  base,  shaft,  and 
capital,  again  would  not  answer.  Even  the  campanile 
principle,  though  pointing  the  way,  was  just  a  little  beside 
the  mark.  The  very  nature  of  the  structure  with  its 
space-saving  requirements  fought  all  of  the  old  forms. 

Not  but  what  they  were  tried,  and  some  of  them  still 


Pl.  27.  —  West  Street  Building 


THE   NEW  CITY  123 

in  process  of  trying.  Venetian  palaces  were  elongated, 
Roman  arches  were  drawn  out  of  all  recognition,  Norman 
castles  rose  to  phenomenal  heights;  but  these  contorted 
structures  were  far  from  satisfactory.  The  majority  of  the 
buildings,  however,  rather  held  by  the  three-part  principle 
of  Roman  or  Renaissance  architecture,  with  the  base, 
shaft,  and  capital  of  the  column  as  controlling  motives. 
In  the  average  sky-scraper  of  this  latter  type  one  or  more 
stories  of  the  basement  were  heavily  constructed  or  pushed 
out  as  a  foot,  a  projecting  cornice  was  used  to  emphasize 
the  roof,  and  the  intermediate  space  was  broken  with 
ornamental  string-courses,  bayed  windows,  high  pilasters, 
or  columns  upholding  ox-bowed  windows  covering  several 
floors  in  height.  This  was  little  more  than  an  adding-up 
or  a  pulling-out  of  the  ordinary  four-story  building.  It 
was,  moreover,  a  strain  at  holding  the  building  together; 
and,  by  the  use  of  the  horizontal  line  emphasizing  the 
separate  stories,  it  was  an  attempt  to  minimize  the  height. 
In  other  words,  the  architect  was  apologetic  about  his 
building ;  he  was  trying  to  make  people  believe  it  was  not 
such  a  bridge  truss  on  end,  not  such  a  sky-scraper,  after 
all. 

This  proved  something  of  a  mistake,  and  New  York 
learned  (or  is  in  process  of  learning),  of  its  mistake  from 
Chicago.  The  credit  of  devising  a  better  design  belongs 
to  the  western  architects.  Instead  of  deprecating  the 
height  of  the  steel  building,  they  emphasized  it  by  using 


124  THE   NEW  NEW   YORK 

the  vertical  instead  of  the  horizontal  line.  The  foot  of 
the  building  was  made  only  a  slight  projection,  the  cornice 
was  cut  down  or  changed  into  a  railing  or  balcony  that 
sometimes  hid  the  roof,  and  the  intermediate  space  was 
broken  by  climbing  pilasters,  corresponding  in  size  to 
string-courses  or  half-round  mouldings,  that  divided  the 
windows  up  and  down  instead  of  across.  The  vertical 
line,  instead  of  fighting  the  height  of  the  building, 
accented  it,  gave  it  aspiration,  dignity,  and  withal  light- 
ness and  a  semblance  of  honesty  —  the  very  things  in  which 
the  first  sky-scrapers  were  lacking. 

The  West  Street  Building,  designed  by  Mr.  Cass  Gilbert, 
is  a  good  example  of  the  more  modern  structure  using  the 
vertical  instead  of  the  horizontal  line.  The  effect  of  it  is 
to  carry  the  eye  upward,  to  increase  the  height;  and, 
finally,  to  allow  definition  to  be  lost  in  a  mystery  of 
ornamental  window  caps,  cornices,  and  terra-cotta  pin- 
nacles. Perhaps  there  are  too  many  of  the  latter  in  Mr. 
Gilbert's  building;  but  then,  ornament  has  from  the 
beginning  been  something  of  a  snare  to  the  sky-scraper 
architect.  If  applied  just  for  diversion,  it  is  usually  bad. 
There  is  ordinarily  too  much  of  it  —  too  much  variety 
as  well  as  quantity  —  and  it  is  perfectly  apparent  to  the 
passer-by  that  it  is  put  on  merely  to  break  the  sameness  of 
the  fagade.  It  is  good  only  when  it  helps  out  the  con- 
struction or  the  architectural  conception.  If  a  series  of 
columns,  or  jutting  string-courses,   or  ribs  of  stone,  or 


Pl.  28.  —  SiNGEK  Building  —  Early  Evening 


THE   NEW  CITY  125 

embayed  windows  can  be  used  with  architectural  signifi- 
cance, they  may  be  very  successful.  So,  again,  there 
may  be  a  proper  ornamental  filling  of  space  in  decorated 
cornices,  or  sculptured  keystones  or  geometrical  ara- 
besques ;  but  there  is  always  danger  lurking  in  them  — 
the  danger  of  destroying  solidity  and  simplicity  by  too 
much  tracery  and  garnishment. 

There  is  the  possibility  of  error,  too,  in  the  choice  of 
stone  or  terra-cotta  or  brick  or  other  weather-shield 
material  used  for  the  walls.  The  earlier  attempts  at 
producing  an  appearance  of  solid  stone-walls,  by  deceitful 
veneers  of  granite  or  cement  pilasters,  were  never  good. 
Just  now  there  is  a  disposition,  or  a  desire,  at  least,  upon 
the  part  of  the  architects,  to  exploit  the  airiness  of  the 
steel  structure;  but  they  are  at  some  loss  to  know  just 
how  this  shall  be  done.  The  Eiffel  Tower  gives  the  desired 
effect,  but  it  would  not  make  an  office  building;  it  is  not 
enclosed.  The  Singer  Building  is  an  enclosed  tower,  but 
the  quantity  of  glass  used  to  enclose  it,  perhaps,  makes  it 
look  too  fragile. 

Again,  in  the  treatment  of  the  wall  space  between  foot 
and  cap  there  comes  to  the  architect  the  question  of 
color.  How  can  this  be  employed  to  break  the  vertical 
monotony?  Can  tiles,  or  terra-cotta,  or  different-hued 
bricks  be  used  effectively  in  geometrical  patterns?  Is  it 
desirable  or  practicable  to  have  the  walls  painted  ?  Given 
several  hundred   feet  of  upright  wall  broken   only  by 


126  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

windows  and  pilasters,  and  what  is  to  be  done  with  it? 
How  shall  you  make  it  look  attractive  and  yet  dignified  ? 

All  these  questions  are  asked  and  answered  in  an 
individual  way  about  every  new  steel  building  that  is  sent 
up.  It  has  been  generally  assumed  that  the  builders  of 
the  sky-scrapers  were  money-makers  pure  and  simple,  — 
men  after  the  dollar  and  caring  nothing  for  appearances,  — 
but  such  is  not  the  case.  They,  with  their  architects  and 
engineers,  are  very  much  concerned  with  the  aesthetic  side, 
and  wish  their  buildings  to  please  the  eye  from  without 
as  well  as  to  fill  the  pocket-book  from  within.  Good  form 
with  color  and  ornamentation  are  things  sought  for. 
The  attempt  to  produce  them,  which  is  apparent  in  almost 
every  high  building  in  the  city,  is  sufficient  evidence  of 
the  desire  to  have  them.  Admitting  failure  with  them  in 
many  cases,  and  still  success  in  perhaps  as  many  more 
cases,  shows  that  they  are  possibilities,  and  that  eventu- 
ally they  will  become  established  actualities. 

But  the  worry  of  the  public,  and  the  critics,  and  our 
returned  compatriots,  is  perhaps  centered  less  on  the  archi- 
tecture (or  its  lack)  in  the  new  buildings,  than  on  their 
incongruity  when  seen  with  the  old  buildings.  They  do 
not  belong  to  the  same  school  or  style  or  epoch;  they 
break  in  upon  the  present  arrangement  with  a  disagreeable 
jar.  And  yet,  it  is  still  within  the  memory  of  man  that 
similar  things  were  said  about  the  tall  towers  of  the 
Brooklyn    Bridge.     They,    too,    were    once    "hideous"; 


THE   NEW  CITY  127 

but  gradually  as  the  city  has  grown  up  to  them  they  have 
become  orderly,  contiguous,  related,  affiliated.  Eventu- 
ally, perhaps,  the  new  buildings  will  not  be  out  of  harmony 
with  the  old,  because  there  will  be  little  of  the  old  left. 

Not  that  New  York  is  to  become  an  unbroken  stretch 
of  sky-scrapers.  Many  of  the  larger  and  older  structures 
will  undoubtedly  remain.  Not  that  all  the  tall  buildings 
will  be  of  a  size,  a  style,  or  a  color.  There  will  be  as 
great  a  variety  in  them  as  in  the  buildings  they  have 
superseded.  And  just  as  many  inconsistencies  along  the 
line  of  contact.  Why  not?  What  strange  theory  of 
civic  art  taught  us  that  uniformity  in  buildings  made  the 
city  beautiful?  It  sometimes  makes  the  dull  city,  as 
Madrid,  for  instance ;  but  it  never  made  the  wonder  and 
surprise  of  Buda-Pesth,  nor  the  unique  charm  of  London. 
Variety  does  not  mean  necessarily  antagonism.  The 
Gothic  does  not  clash  with  the  Renaissance  except  in  the 
theory  of  the  partisan  advocate.  The  Piazzeta  at  Venice 
is  one  of  the  most  charming  spots  architecturally  in  all 
Europe,  but  what  a  variety  of  styles  are  grouped  about 
it  —  the  Byzantine  S.  Marco,  the  Gothic  Doge's  Palace, 
the  classic  Library  of  Sansovino,  the  mediaeval  campanile, 
the  composite  Loggetta  !  One  by  one  as  these  structures 
went  up,  there  were  doubtless  Venetians  who  groaned  in 
spirit  and  declared  the  last  addition  to  be  the  ruin  of  the 
city  architecturally;  but  time  has  proved  them  wrong. 
There  is  no  incongruity  or  want  of  harmony  in  the  group. 


128  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

Nor  will  there  be  incongruity  in  the  buildings  of  the 
new  New  York,  save  as  people  for  purposes  of  advertise- 
ment or  through  absurdity,  perpetrate  the  bizarre  or  the 
ridiculous.  There  is,  to  be  sure,  a  sharp  contrast  between, 
say,  the  Metropolitan  Life  Building  with  its  tall  tower  on 
Madison  Square  and  the  small  green-and-yellow  version 
of  a  Roman  temple  near  by  that  is  doing  service  as  a 
Christian  church.  Both  buildings  are  new  and  bad 
enough  —  the  one  in  its  want  of  proportion  and  its  over- 
ornamentation,  the  other  in  its  mixed  imitation  of  the 
Roman  Pantheon  and  the  Kiinstler-Haus  at  Buda-Pesth. 
The  larger  one  will  possibly  some  day  be  blurred  and 
blended  by  weathering  until  it  fits  in  the  square  and 
meets  the  structures  about  it.  Nor  will  the  smaller  one 
fail  as  a  picturesque  foil  to  its  surroundings ;  but  it  will 
always  be  a  terra-cotta  protest  against  its  marble  neigh- 
bor, a  green  frog  railing  at  a  white  giraffe.  It  was  put 
forth  to  attract  attention  —  and  it  does  it. 

But,  aside  from  advertising  and  fads  of  fashion,  there 
is  no  reason  why  different  styles  of  architecture  should 
not  harmonize  with  each  other ;  and  this,  too,  without  any 
preconceived  plan  to  meet  and  match.  The  idea  that  a 
square  or  street  or  city  needs  to  be  exactly  scaled  and 
designed  that  its  buildings  should  not  quarrel,  is  the  latest 
theory  of  civic  artists ;  and,  no  doubt,  if  an  agreement  as  to 
style  and  plan  could  be  reached  by  all  the  land-owners  of  a 
given  space,  the   result  might  be  more  uniform.     Yet 


THE   NEW  CITY  129 

there  is  danger  in  the  exact  plan.  Such  a  uniformity  with 
monotony  is  still  visible  on  some  of  the  side  streets  of 
up-town  New  York  where  the  old  blocks  of  brown-stone 
fronts  remain.  Berlin  is  built  somewhat  in  that  style, 
and  there  are  many  miles  of  Paris  that  are  deadly  dull 
because  wanting  in  variety. 

But  the  question  is  wholly  academic.  In  a  demo- 
cratic city  like  New  York  people  will  build  as  suits  their 
individual  interests;  and  after  all  there  is  compensation 
in  that.  The  great  majority  of  squares  and  streets  and 
towns  —  those  that  we  admire  to-day —  were  not  planned. 
One  thing  after  another  was  pushed  in  to  fill  a  need,  first  a 
tower,  then  a  church,  then  a  town-hall,  or  a  monument; 
until  finally  a  Piazza  del  Duomo,  a  Dresden  Theater- 
Platz,  or  even  an  English  Oxford,  was  the  result.  This 
grouping  by  necessity  or  for  convenience  has  in  the  past 
proved  quite  as  good,  and  even  more  interesting  than  the 
rectilinear  laying  out  of  a  Louvre,  or  the  formal  grandeur 
of  a  Viennese  Franzen-Ring.  At  least  the  result  is  not 
stilted,  icily  regular,  splendidly  null.  It  has  the  ap- 
pearance of  something  constructed  for  use,  not  for  looks, 
and  it  also  suggests  the  story  of  progress.^ 

The  future  will  no  doubt  see  the  same  law  of  use, 

^  That  there  are  arguments  for  the  formal  city  is  not  questioned.  I  my- 
self have  elsewhere  used  them.  But  why  not  admit  that  there  maybe 
arguments  for  the  informal  city  also?  It  is  the  old  contention  of  the 
classic  against  the  romantic,  of  form  against  color.  But  why  not 
beauty  in  both? 


130  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

unconsciously  perhaps,  producing  harmony  in  the  open 
places  and  the  long  streets  of  New  York.  The  tall  units 
that,  one  by  one,  are  being  placed  in  the  Plaza,  at  the 
entrance  to  the  Central  Park,  will  tone  down  in  color,  run 
over  and  intertwine  in  line,  group  together  as  masses, 
until  all  are  but  parts  of  a  whole.  And  it  will  be  the  same 
with  Madison  and  Union  squares,  with  Fifth  Avenue  and 
Broadway.  In  the  lower  city  the  massed  effect  of  the 
high  buildings  can  already  be  felt.  The  unity  of  the  new 
city  is  indicated  there  for  those  who  have  the  imagination 
to  see  it.  Unity  but  not  uniformity.  There  is,  and  will 
continue  to  be,  the  saving  grace  of  variety. 


ANCIENT   LANDMAKKS 


Pl.  VIII.      THE   CITY   HALL  AND   WORLD    BUILDING 


omajiua  aj5iow  gha  jjah  ytio  hht— .iiiv  .jT 


CHAPTER  VIII 

ANCIENT    LANDMARKS 

There  is  still  a  further  objection  urged  to  the  sky- 
scraper upbuilding  of  the  new  city.  It  requires  a  tearing 
down  of  the  old  city ;  and  against  that  there  are  always 
voices  enough  to  cry  out  in  protest.  Not  that  there  is  any 
great  value,  aesthetic  or  otherwise,  to  the  old  ;  but,  because 
it  has  become  familiar,  and  has  perhaps  some  pleasant 
associations  connected  with  it,  people  would  like  to  see  it 
preserved.  Then,  too,  with  the  passing  of  the  old  build- 
ings history  loses  its  landmarks.  We  can  no  longer  tell 
where  Wouter  Van  Twiller  smoked  the  pipe  of  peace,  or 
Peter  Stuyvesant  pounded  his  wooden  leg  on  the  floor 
with  wrath,  or  where  stood  the  Collect  Pond  with  the 
island  in  the  middle  of  it,  or  where  ran  the  Dutch  wall 
from  which  Wall  Street  derived  its  name.  Mr.  James  says 
that  on  his  last  visit  here  he  could  not  even  find  the 
houses  where  certain  celebrated  men — poets,  painters,  and 
the  like  —  were  born,  and  which  he  knew  as  a  boy  !  He 
thinks  the  spots  should  have  been  marked  or  commemo- 
rated in  some  way ;  but  how  could  one  put  a  tablet  on  a 
twenty-story  sky-scraper ! 

133 


134  THE   NEW  NEW   YORK 

This  protest  of  history  or  sentiment  has  always  been 
made  in  the  past  as  in  the  present,  and  has  usually  been 
unheeded.  The  world  goes  right  on  tearing  down  and 
building  up  anew,  on  the  principle  that  its  counting-room 
is  only  a  shop ;  that  when  its  machinery  wears  out  or 
becomes  inadequate,  it  shall  be  superseded  by  other  and 
better  machinery ;  and  when  the  shop  itself  becomes  too 
small,  it  shall  be  torn  down  and  a  larger  one  put  in  its 
place.  Thus  acted  on  occasion  the  ancient  Greeks  and 
Romans,  and  thus  act  the  modern  New  Yorkers.  The 
commercial  keynote  of  New  York  is  again  sharply  struck. 
The  city  is  a  shop,  not  a  historical  museum  in  the  large, 
like  present-day  Venice.  Moreover,  the  past  history  of 
the  city  is  wholly  insignificant  when  compared  with  its 
present  commercial  importance.  Its  impetus,  its  move- 
ment forward,  are  not  to  be  checked  by  a  Fraunce's  Tavern 
or  a  Poe's  cottage  or  even  a  Washington  or  Hamilton 
headquarters.  If  historical  buildings  are  still  useful  or 
beautiful  in  themselves,  like  the  City  Hall  or  Old  Trinity, 
no  one  will  question  the  propriety  of  retaining  them ;  but 
the  fact  that  tradition  attaches  to  them  is  not  sufficient 
in  itself  for  their  preservation.  If  tradition  always  had  its 
way,  the  dead  past  would  never  bury  its  dead,  and  the 
modern  city  would  be  a  rubbish  heap  like  Bagdad  or 
Damascus. 

As  it  is,  the  reverence  for  antiquity  has  resulted  in 
many  of  the  older  cities  being  choked  with  their  own  ashes. 


Pl.  29. — Trinity  Church  Yard 


ANCIENT   LANDMARKS  135 

Rome  is  full  of  broken-down  brick  baths,  belonging  once  to 
the  Csesars  as  now  to  the  tourists,  that  have  not  one  saving 
virtue  of  use  or  beauty  to  commend  them.  In  Florence  a 
great  wail  was  sent  skyward  when  modern  buildings 
superseded  the  ancient  quarters  where  heroes  and 
heroines  of  fiction  were  supposed  to  have  lived  — 
quarters  which  were  no  better  than  the  old  ghetto  of 
Rome.  And  in  London,  if  a  radical  should  suggest  a  new 
bridge  over  the  Thames  to  take  the  place  of  any  one  of 
the  half-dozen  inconvenient  and  deadly  commonplace 
structures  that  now  span  the  stream,  there  would  be  vio- 
lent protests  in  the  name  of  history  and  romance  from 
Ruskinians  and  Harrisonians. 

All  this  seems  to  the  modern  who  appreciates  the 
impossibility  of  stopping  human  progress  (or  change,  if  the 
word  be  preferred)  a  waste  of  good  sentiment  and  enthusi- 
asm. An  object  gathers  value  not  for  its  age,  but  for  its 
use  or  beauty.  The  Panthean,  the  Palazzo  Vecchio  at 
Florence,  the  Ducal  Palace  at  Venice  are  beautiful,  not 
because  they  are  old,  but  in  spite  of  it ;  just  as  the  pictures 
by  Titian  and  Giorgione  are  the  worse  for  their  years  rather 
than  bettered  by  them.  The  idea  that  everything  savor- 
ing of  age  must  of  necessity  be  good  is  absurd.  Yet  it  is, 
nevertheless,  an  idea  widely  entertained.  We  in  America 
have  it  in  almost  every  household.  It  is  our  fancy  for 
things  ancient,  more  than  for  things  beautiful,  that  induces 
us  to  lift  marble  mantels  from  Venetian  palaces  and  to 


136  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

place  them  in  Fifth  Avenue  houses,  to  hang  our  walls  with 
tapestries  from  France  and  pictures  from  Italy  and 
Holland,  to  cover  our  floors  with  Daghestan  rugs,  and  to 
put  in  our  drawing-rooms  worm-eaten  chairs  from  Paris 
and  Nuremberg.  Their  inappropriateness  in  their  new 
western  setting  is  glozed  over  by  the  statement  that  they 
are  '^very  old,"  —  a  statement  which  might,  with  equal 
pertinence  if  less  interest,  be  made  about  any  pudding- 
stone  from  the  neighboring  hills. 

Naturally,  with  such  notions  plaguing  our  shallow  minds, 
there  are  a  plenty  of  shrill  voices  to  cry  out  against  the  tear- 
ing down  of  a  square  stone  box  that  happens  to  have  been 
built  before  the  Revolution,  though  it  may  have  no  archi- 
tectural grace  about  it.  Indeed,  it  is  conceivable  that  a 
future  generation  may  grow  lachrymose  over  the  demoli- 
tion of  that  one-time  architectural  horror,  the  New  York 
Post-Office.  And  why  not,  if  age  is  to  be  the  criterion  of 
value?  It  will  soon  be  one  of  the  oldest  of  the  down- 
town structures,  and  probably  has  more  romance  and 
history  about  it  than  all  the  sky-scrapers  put  together. 
But  originally  it  never  had  much  reason  for  existence, 
being  neither  very  useful  nor  very  beautiful ;  and  now  it 
is  merely  an  encumbrance  that  has  been  kept  too  long  from 
the  scrap  heap.  If  a  building  has  any  real  value  in  use  or 
beauty,  there  is  little  difficulty  about  its  being  preserved. 

There  are  very  few  landmarks  down  in  the  busy  quarter 
of  the  town  that  justify  themselves, —  that  give  reason  for 


ANCIENT  LANDMARKS  137 

their  continued  existence.  These  few  are  somewhat  like 
sunken  reefs  in  the  sea  with  the  great  wave-Uke  cornices  of 
the  sky-scrapers  apparently  breaking  above  them,  almost 
over  them.  They  are  weather-worn,  water-worn,  doomed 
to  destruction;  but  for  the  present,  perhaps,  they  serve 
a  purpose  as  beauty,  if  they  are  not  very  useful.  Old 
Trinity  is  one  of  the  most  famous  of  these  survivals.  With 
its  trees  and  grass  and  graves,  its  glint  of  sunshine  and  its 
breath  of  air,  it  lies  like  a  benediction  upon  the  heart  of 
the  busy  lower  city.  It  is  something  to  please  the  eye 
and  calm  the  fevered  brain,  for  a  moment  at  least;  and 
the  thousands  of  the  worried  and  the  harried  that  push 
and  surge  along  Broadway  look  through  and  over  the  iron 
fence  and  are  helped  by  the  peace  and  quiet  of  it.  That 
alone  is  sufficient  excuse  for  its  being.  Besides,  there 
is  the  beauty  of  the  church  itself  to  lend  one  for  a 
moment  a  surcease  of  business  and  a  suggestion  of  another 
phase  of  life  —  something  not  to  be  despised  in  these 
piping  times  of  commerce. 

But  Trinity  —  church  and  parish  school  and  crumbling 
graves  —  is  submerged,  sunken  as  it  were  beneath  the 
surrounding  buildings.  It  seems  and  looks  a  relic  not 
destined  to  last  for  long.  It  is  already  somewhat  out  of 
place,  its  congregation  do  not  live  within  sound  of  its  bells, 
and  those  that  lie  under  the  sod  have  no  longer  close 
kindred  that  walk  about  the  graves  after  service  and  keep 
watch  over  the  tombs  and  the  headstones.     Broadway 


138  THE   NEW  NEW  YORK 

frets  at  it;  Wall  Street  bombards  it  with  noisy  people; 
Church  Street  roars  at  it  with  elevated  trains  above  and 
lumbering  trucks  below;  and  its  own  corporation  puts 
up  a  lofty  sky-scraper  to  look  down  upon  the  cross  of  the 
steeple.  It  seems  as  though  they  all  longed  to  rush  in 
upon  it  and  strangle  it. 

Fifty  years  ago  that  brown-stone  steeple,  lifting  high 
in  the  air,  dominated  all  lower  New  York.  It  was  the  one 
tall  tower  on  the  island,  and  its  bells  rang  out  across 
the  waters  and  were  heard  over  in  Brooklyn  and  in  New 
Jersey.  Then  it  was  an  aspiring  needle  pointing  heaven- 
ward and,  if  it  soared  far  above  the  commercial  buildings 
scattered  about  its  feet,  it  but  symbolized  the  predomi- 
nance, at  that  time,  of  the  spiritual  over  the  material. 
It  had  not  then  outlived  its  purpose.  Its  congregation  was 
within  call  of  its  bells,  its  parish  school  had  children  to 
educate,  it  was  still  a  place  where  people  were  baptized  and 
married  and  buried.  Serene  and  beautiful  and  sanctified 
it  all  seemed,  resting  there  under  the  blue  sky  with  the 
peace  of  God  upon  it. 

But  now  what !  The  old  order  has  changed,  giving 
place  to  new.  The  church  on  the  green  seems  like  a  church 
in  an  area-way,  and  the  clear  sweet  bells  that  once  sounded 
over  the  rivers  now  reverberate  with  a  clang  from  the 
high  walls  about  them,  or  at  times  have  a  muffled,  strangled 
cry,  like  that  of  a  bell-buoy  overridden  by  stormy  seas. 
The  congregation,  shrunken  to  small  proportions,  comes 


Pl.  30.  —  St.  Paul's  and  Park  Row  Building 


ANCIENT   LANDMARKS  139 

over  from  Brooklyn  by  bridge  or  tunnel,  or  down  from  the 
upper  town  with  a  rush  by  elevated  or  subway.  As  for 
marriage  and  burial  there,  they  are  now  rare  occurrences ; 
and  the  children  —  the  only  children  left  in  that  part  of 
the  city  —  belong  to  the  janitors'  families,  many  of  them 
by  birth  of  an  alien  denomination. 

Alas,  fair  Trinity !  With  all  its  beauty  it  is  only  a 
survival.  Its  usefulness  as  a  church  is  gone  and  it  lags 
superfluous  on  the  scene.  Everyone  will  be  sorry  to  see 
it  go,  for  it  has  been  for  many  years  a  lovely  spot  of  brown 
and  green  upon  the  gray.  But  commerce  is  beating  upon 
it  and  wearing  it  away.     Eventually  it  will  succumb. 

One  cannot  but  feel  the  same  way  about  St.  Paul's. 
It  was  begun  in  1764  and  completed  (all  except  the  steeple) 
in  two  years.  Broadway  was  not  then  considered  a  great 
thoroughfare;  indeed,  it  was  only  a  lane,  and  St.  Paul's 
turned  its  back  upon  it,  facing  toward  the  North  River. 
There  was  a  fine  view  then  from  the  simple  little  porch 
down  to  a  sandy  beach,  and  beyond  it  bright  waves  flashing 
in  the  sunlight;  but  now  the  beach  has  disappeared,  the 
river  has  been  much  filled  in,  and  St.  Paul's  faces  the  ele- 
vated road  and  near  it  office  buildings  rising  in  ranks  and 
flights  upward  and  outward.  Originally  it  was  (is  still)  a 
chapel  of  Trinity  Church,  and  was  the  third  church 
building  erected  by  the  English  in  New  York,  but  it  is 
now  the  oldest  church  structure  in  the  city.  Again,  it  is 
entitled  to  survive.     It  is  like  Trinity,  a  spot  of  verdure 


140  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

in  the  waste,  and  it  would  be  a  pity  to  see  it  disappear. 
Yet  what  shall  save  it  ?  It  was  only  yesterday  that  St. 
John's  in  Varick  Street  (built  in  1803)  was  threatened 
and  then  temporarily  spared.  What  shall  save  St. 
Paul's? 

A  little  more  shut  in,  a  little  more  protected  from 
assault,  is  the  City  Hall.  The  group  of  county  buildings 
at  the  back,  the  General  Post-Office  in  front,  stand  as 
buffers,  and  the  small  park  about  it  seems  to  hold  off  in- 
vasion year  by  year ;  but  the  sky-scrapers  near  at  hand  — 
the  lofty  towers  of  the  Park  Row  Building,  the  gilded  dome 
of  the  World  that  repeats  the  City  Hall  cupola  on  a  colossal 
scale  of  impudence,  the  massive  squares  and  uprights  of 
masonry  on  Broadway  —  seem  to  look  over  and  glare  at  it 
as  wondering  what  it  is  doing  there.  And,  true  enough, 
what  does  it  there  ?  It  is  like  some  fair  lady  clad  in  a  ball 
dress  of  pale  silk,  standing  in  the  dust  and  dirt  of  the  noisy 
street.  It  is  too  delicate,  too  lovely,  too  feminine,  for 
contact  with  those  great  structures  of  steel  and  granite. 
To-day,  after  its  recent  cleaning,  the  white  marble  shows 
an  old  ivory  coloring,  and  the  yellow  window-shades 
are  as  a  note  of  gold  upon  the  ivory.  The  delicacy  of 
proportions  in  windows,  columns,  and  cupola,  the  fineness 
of  decoration  over  doors  and  along  string-courses,  the 
fastidious  simplicity  of  the  wings,  are  all  so  marked  as  to 
create  the  impression  of  a  casket  in  ivory.  It  is  not  coarse 
enough  or  bulky  enough  for  such  a  place.     A  building 


ANCIENT  LANDMARKS  141 

of,  say,  forty  stories  would  not  be  too  big  to  dominate 
the  office  structures  about  the  City  Hall  Park.  It  is  a 
curatorial  thought  that  creeps  into  one's  head  in  looking 
at  the  little  City  Hall  —  the  thought  that  the  whole 
building  ought  to  be  picked  up  and  put  in  some  museum. 
Yet  worse  things  than  that  may  happen  to  it. 

It  was  not  so  long  ago  that  this  beautiful  building 
was  erected.  McComb,  its  architect,  had  completed  the 
more  robust  Queens  Building  at  Rutgers  in  1811,  and  the 
next  year  the  City  Hall  was  finished.  The  park  was  then 
the  outskirts  of  the  city,  and  the  New  Yorkers  of  that  time 
had  such  small  idea  of  the  city's  growth  to  the  north  that 
the  rear  walls  of  the  new  building  were  carried  up  in 
brown-stone  instead  of  marble.  It  has  been  said  that  this 
was  economy,  and  not  a  question  of  the  extent  of  the 
future  city ;  but  the  fact  that  all  the  economy  was  used  on 
the  rear  wall  is  significant.  McComb  and  his  contempo- 
raries had  as  little  thought  that  ten  miles  of  solid  buildings 
would  grow  up  back  of  the  brown-stone  walls  as  Wouter 
Van  Twiller  and  his  Dutch  compatriots  that  their  clearing 
in  the  woods,  where  cattle  were  rounded  up  in  the  autumn, 
would  some  day  become  a  park  dominated  by  McComb's 
fine  building. 

What  swift  and  sudden  transitions !  The  changes  of 
a  hundred  years  are  almost  inconceivable.  Have  we  now 
reached  the  limit  of  mutation?  Are  things  to  stand 
still  hereafter  and  the  ivory-hued  City  Hall  to  remain 


142  THE   NEW  NEW  YORK 

unchanged,  attesting  to  the  future  generations  the 
sense  of  proportion,  the  simple  beauty  of  materials,  the 
chasteness  of  ornamentation,  employed  by  the  forefathers  ? 
The  chances  are  against  it.  Why?  Because  the  build- 
ing has  outlived  its  usefulness.  It  is  still  occupied,  but  it 
is  not  convenient,  and  its  mere  beauty  is  not  strong 
enough  plea  to  save  it  from  destruction.  It  has  been 
menaced  more  than  once  by  political  parties  in  power, 
and  eventually  it  is  almost  sure  to  be  sacrificed. 

If  such  a  fate  should  overtake  the  Aquarium  (formerly 
Castle  Garden),  there  would  be  few  mourners.  It  has  no 
beauty  about  it,  and  the  only  thing  that  is  saving  it  just 
now  is  its  enforced  use.  It  makes  a  fairly  decent  building 
for  an  aquarium,  and  besides  it  is  isolated  in  Battery  Park 
and  no  one  is  crying  for  the  land  it  occupies.  Some  asso- 
ciations and  traditions  cling  about  it  and  lend  a  scrap  of 
romance  to  it.  It  started  into  life  in  1811  as  Fort  Clinton 
and  was  then  situated  on  a  tiny  island  lying  off  Battery 
Park.  In  1822,  or  thereabouts,  it  ceased  to  be  a  fort  and 
was  turned  into  a  place  of  amusement,  where  Jenny  Lind 
first  sang  when  she  came  to  America,  and  Lafayette  and 
Kossuth  were  publicly  received  and  welcomed.  In  a  few 
years  the  playhouse  had  turned  into  a  station  for  the 
reception  of  immigrants  from  the  Old  World,  and  in  1896 
it  was  fitted  up  as  an  aquarium.  It  now  houses  the  finest 
collection  of  fishes  in  the  world,  but  it  has  almost  com- 
pletely lost  its  old  character.     Instead  of  covering  a  tiny 


ANCIENT   LANDMARKS  143 

island  it  rests  bedded  in  the  stone  slabs  of  Battery  Park 
and  looks  somewhat  like  a  half-sunken  gas  tank.  Senti- 
ment may  cling  about  it,  and  the  folk  with  neither  New 
York  ancestry  nor  history  may  reverence  it  because  it  is 
so  "very  old";  but  in  reality  it  is  sad  rubbish  and  has 
little  place  in  the  new  city. 

There  is  not  a  building  in  lower  New  York  that  goes 
back  to  the  time  of  the  Dutch  occupation,  and  very  few 
that  belong  to  the  later  English  occupation.  The  streets 
remain,  but  their  original  designers  would  not  recognize 
them,  so  great  has  been  the  change.  Tablets  commemo- 
rating historic  sites  have  been  placed  on  the  new  buildings ; 
but,  again,  those  who  participated  and  made  the  history 
would  never  know  the  places  thereof.  What  seventeenth- 
century  Dutchman,  could  he  wake  up,  would  recognize  in 
the  ponderous  new  Custom  House  the  site  of  the  old  Dutch 
fort  in  New  Amsterdam ;  or  in  Beaver  Street  the  beaver 
trail  leading  over  into  the  marsh  now  called  Broad  Street ; 
or  in  Wall  Street  the  place  where  the  wall  to  keep  out 
invading  foes  was  erected ;  or  in  Broadway  the  Heere 
Straat,  which  in  1665  was  remarkable  for  containing 
twenty-one  buildings  ?  The  burghers  in  pot  hats  and  bag 
breeches  that  wandered  along  Perel-Straat  (Pearl  Street) 
when  it  was  the  water-line  of  the  East  River,  and  the 
faithful  huis-vrouws  in  balloon  skirts  that  chattered  along 
the  cow  path  (Beekman  Street)  leading  through  the  Beek- 
man  farm  up  to  the  (City  Hall)  park  would  never  be 


144  THE  NEW   NEW   YORK 

able  to  orient  themselves  in  the  new  New  York.  The 
Dutch  past  seems  to  have  been  completely  wiped  off  the 
map. 

American  antiquity  has,  at  best,  some  very  positive 
limitations.  Most  of  the  things  we  call  "old"  are  within 
the  memory  of  men  still  living.  The  pile  of  Doric-shaped 
granite  on  Wall  and  Broad  streets,  now  doing  service  as  a 
Sub-Treasury,  stands  where  formerly  stood  the  City  Hall 
in  which  Washington  was  inaugurated  first  President  of 
the  Republic.  The  old  building  was  torn  down  in  1813 
and  later  on  the  present  building  was  erected.  No  one 
knows  how  long  this  one  will  last.  Nothing  endures  for 
any  length  of  time  in  this  commercial  center.  The  Astor 
House,  a  granite  hotel  in  the  same  class  as  the  Sub-Treas- 
ury, is  again  only  "old"  to  Americans.  It  has  about 
fifty  years,  and  will  probably  never  see  three-score  and 
ten. 

A  much  older  hostelry  than  the  Astor  House  —  in  fact 
one  of  the  oldest  buildings  in  New  York  —  is  Fraunce's 
Tavern,  standing  on  the  southwest  corner  of  Broad  and 
Pearl  streets.  It  was  originally  the  residence  of  Etienne 
de  Lancey,  and  was  built  in  1725.  It  was  the  fashionable 
tavern  of  New  York  in  its  day.  Here  the  New  York 
Chamber  of  Commerce  was  organized  in  1768,  here  Wash- 
ington had  his  headquarters  after  the  British  evacuation 
of  New  York,  and  here  on  December  4,  1783,  the  great 
captain  said  farewell  to  his  officers.     The  building  is  not 


Pl.  31.  —  St.  Paul's  —  Imkukju 


ANCIENT   LANDMARKS  145 

"et  wonder  and  delight"  architecturally,  not  at  all  in  the 
class  with  Trinity  or  the  City  Hall;  but  it  illustrates  a 
page  of  history  that  all  Americans  are  proud  to  read. 
In  consequence  of  that,  perhaps,  and  in  response  to  a 
public  appeal,  the  city  government  tried  to  buy  Fraunce's 
Tavern  with  the  idea  of  its  preservation  as  a  museum; 
but  finally,  by  mutual  agreement,  the  Society  of  the  Sons 
of  the  Revolution  purchased  the  property  and  have  re- 
stored it.  Such  a  very  unworldly,  unbusinesslike  per- 
formance as  that  might  have  been  expected  of  Paris,  but 
hardly  of  New  York.  Still,  everyone  seems  to  acquiesce. 
One  hesitates  to  suggest  that  the  acquiescence  is  due  some- 
what to  indifference  as  well  as  sentiment.  The  old  tavern 
is  removed  from  the  center  of  business  activity.  If  it 
stood  on  the  corner  of  Wall  Street  and  Broadway,  there 
might  have  been  a  different  tale  to  tell. 

Perhaps  the  '^historic  mansions"  in  the  upper  part  of 
the  city,  along  Riverside  Drive  and  the  Fort  Washington 
district,  have  survived  to  the  present  day  for  the  reason, 
again,  that  their  room  is  not  actively  needed.  Alexander 
Hamilton's  house,  ''The  Grange,"  near  One  Hundred  and 
Forty-Second  Street  and  Convent  Avenue,  is  one  of  the 
most  notable  of  those  that  remain.  It  was  from  here 
that  Hamilton  went  forth  in  the  morning  of  July  11, 
1804,  to  fight  the  fatal  duel  with  Aaron  Burr.  The  shadow 
of  Burr  also  fell  on  the  old  Jumel  mansion,  still  stand- 
ing on  One  Hundred  and  Sixtieth  Street ;  but  before  his 


146  THE  NEW   NEW   YORK 

day  it  held  Mrs.  Roger  Morris,  who,  as  Mary  Philipse, 
was  the  first  love  of  Washington.  In  1776  Washington 
made  it  his  headquarters,  and  from  it  Nathan  Hale  sal- 
lied forth  to  get  information  within  the  British  lines,  and 
never  came  back.  In  the  Van  Cortlandt  Park  still  stands 
the  old  Van  Cortlandt  mansion  built  in  1748,  and  now 
used  as  a  museum  of  history  by  the  Colonial  Dames.  The 
old  mills  that  belonged  to  the  place  are  there  yet  (or  were 
a  few  years  ago),  and  the  mill-pond  is  now  used  by  skaters 
in  the  winter  season. 

So  one  might  go  on,  recounting  perhaps  a  dozen  places 
in  the  upper  city  that  have  a  century  of  story  attached  to 
them  of  a  more  or  less  romantic  nature.  Interesting,  and 
in  view  of  our  abbreviated  history,  a  little  pathetic,  are 
these  reminders  of  the  past.  The  scarcity  of  them  seems 
to  emphasize  our  want  of  feeling  about  things  historic. 
We  appear  ruthless,  destructive,  unsympathetic.  And 
yet,  after  all,  what  has  New  York  to  do  vnth  romance  or 
the  past  ?  The  most  important  page  of  its  biography  is 
now  open  and  being  written  upon.  As  for  sentiment, 
there  is  plenty  of  it  among  New  Yorkers,  but  they  are 
indisposed  to  mix  it  with  business.  Sentiment  and  his- 
tory are  in  the  same  category  with  literature  and  the  arts, 
merely  secondary  considerations,  —  things  to  be  cultivated 
like  potted  plants  in  factory  windows  provided  they  do 
not  interfere  in  any  way  with  the  light  or  the  working  of 
the  machinery. 


< 


fu, 


ANCIENT   LANDMARKS  147 

Harsh  facts !  And  perhaps  better  kept  in  the  back- 
ground or  at  least  passed  over  in  silence.  And  yet  why? 
There  is  nothing  discreditable  about  commercialism/ 
Material  prosperity  is  what  the  world,  in  all  times  and  in 
all  places,  has  been  struggling  for.  The  necessities  of  life 
are  the  prerequisites  of  the  luxuries.  No  city  ever  did 
much  with  art  and  literature  until  it  had  solved  the 
fiscal  question.  And  New  York  simply  happens  to  be  a 
better  struggler  —  a  better  breadwinner  —  than  any  of 
its  predecessors.  One  would  not  care  for  its  prevailing 
idea,  its  commercial  intensity,  everywhere  and  all  over 
the  United  States.  Business  can  be,  and  has  been,  done 
to  death  many  times.  But  why  not  commerce  dominant 
in  this  city  by  the  sea  which  is  so  admirably  fitted  for  that 
very  thing? 

*  After  writing  "The  Money  God,"  I  shall  not  be  accused  of  unduly- 
favoring  commercialism.  It  has  its  iniquities,  and  produces  a  strange 
mania  almost  everywhere ;  but  it  also  has  its  necessities  and  its  excellences. 
In  "  The  Money  God,"  I  recited  the  former,  and  I  have  no  notion  of  apolo- 
gizing for  now  reciting  the  latter.    There  are  two  sides  to  every  case. 


THE   EBB   TIDE 


Three  o'clock 
in  the  lower  c"" 
the  time  whob 
tions  (.'aii  i;i'  ■  ■ 
changes  — 
town,  or  "oui 

long  the  Soil 
'hen  until  six  <j 

:tvvard,  seekine 
The   lit' 
-•^ngers,  and 

ay  does  not  nie.-j 


d-up  people 


< 


13   tiio 

"CiOCiVj     liu;    Liui 

:s  whence  it  cdnic  i^k 

the   bof . 

-are  usual:  r;, 

rn 


"rom  ten  to  liire^   and  long 

,  and  members  (5f  the  firm 

X 
\-frames  of  lights  up  in  the 

-•lerical  force  is  still  at  work, 

'ks  and  business. 

n  the  afternoon  is  sub 

petition  (ji   tiie  morning  moveraeni 


CHAPTER  IX 

THE   EBB  TIDE 

Three  o'clock  is  the  hour  when  the  heaped-up  people 
in  the  lower  city  begin  to  move  outward  again.  That  is 
the  time  when  the  exchanges  close.  No  more  large  opera- 
tions can  be  carried  on  that  day  —  at  least  not  on  the  ex- 
changes —  and  the  operators  begin  to  think  of  going  up 
town,  or  "out  home"  in  New  Jersey  or  Long  Island  or 
along  the  Sound.  It  is  the  turn  of  the  tide,  and  from 
then  until  six  or  seven  o'clock,  the  human  stream  flows 
outward,  seeking  the  places  whence  it  came  in  the  morn- 
ing. The  little  men  —  the  book-keepers,  clerks,  mes- 
sengers, and  office-boys  —  are  usually  the  last  to  go.  A 
day  does  not  mean  for  them  from  ten  to  three;  and  long 
after  the  presidents,  directors,  and  members  of  the  firm 
have  disappeared,  the  window-frames  of  lights  up  in  the 
tall  buildings  show  where  the  clerical  force  is  still  at  work, 
straightening  out  the  day's  books  and  business. 

The  movement  outward  in  the  afternoon  is  substan- 
tially a  repetition  of  the  morning  movement.  The  more 
prominent  or  more  wealthy  men,  to  avoid  publicity  or 
unwished-for  companionship  or  idle  curiosity  on  the  part 

151 


152  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

of  the  throng,  leave  their  offices  ''hurriedly"  (at  least  they 
always  do  in  newspaper  reports)  in  cabs  or  automobiles. 
They  are  ''whirled  off  up  town"  (according  to  the  news- 
papers again),  which  means  that  they  frequently  join  in 
a  slow  procession  up  Broadway  in  the  wake  of  some  heavily 
loaded  truck  that  obstructs  the  thoroughfare.  As  for  the 
rank  and  file,  long  platoons  of  them  disappear  down 
the  side  streets  toward  the  ferries  or  tunnels,  hawked  at 
and  howled  at  by  newsboys,  collar-button  men,  and 
peddlers  of  oranges  and  peanuts.  Once  more  the  hurry- 
ing throng  finds  its  way  around  boxes  and  barrels,  circles 
about  upright  showcases  standing  on  the  sidewalk,  or 
pitches  over  steps  and  iron  gratings  until  finally  the 
advance  guard  disappears  in  the  ferry-houses  or  tunnel 
entrances. 

Other  contingents  move  in  other  directions  and  keep 
disappearing  down  subway  steps,  like  pieces  of  coal 
running  down  a  chute.  The  Broadway  cars  groan  with 
people  fore  and  aft,  the  elevated  stations  and  trains 
are  congested  to  the  danger  point,  the  sidewalks  over- 
flow into  the  street  with  those  who  are  working  along 
toward  the  Bridge  entrance  and  the  cars  to  Brooklyn. 
For  several  hours  these  crowds  of  people  keep  coming 
down  and  out  of  the  tall  buildings,  as  though  the  supply 
at  the  fountain-head  were  inexhaustible.  Where  they  all 
come  from  is  as  much  of  a  wonder  at  night  as  where  they 
all  go  to  is  in  the  morning. 


THE   EBB  TIDE  153 

What  is  the  need  for  the  "rush"  at  night  since 
business  is  through  for  the  day  ?  There  is  nothing  ahead 
but  dinner  and  sleep.  Why  not  "take  it  slowly"  ?  There 
is  only  one  answer  to  this.  It  is  not  in  the  American 
make-up  to  take  matters  slowly.  After  business  hours 
there  are  plenty  of  things  to  do,  and  even  if  they  be  only 
play  things  yet  must  they  be  done  energetically.  The 
New  Yorker  works  at  his  play — drives  as  hard  at  his  amuse- 
ments or  his  meals  as  he  might  at  a  new  enterprise  on  the 
exchange.  Leisure  is  a  novel  word  in  his  vocabulary.  He 
will  devote  as  many  hours  to  golf,  perhaps,  as  to  work, 
but  he  will  not  go  about  it  leisurely  unless  very  old  or  very 
ill.  Up  town,  down  town,  or  out  at  the  country  club  the 
game  has  to  be  played  in  a  businesslike  manner. 

Those  who  make  up  the  ''rush"  at  evening  all  have 
very  definite  ideas  as  to  why  they  are  rushing.  Some  are 
going  up  to  the  hotels  to  carry  on  the  same  shop  talk  they 
have  just  left  behind.  There  are  enterprises  canvassed,  and 
orders  taken  to  sell  or  buy,  in  the  lobbies  of  the  up-town 
hotels  as  well  as  in  the  offices  down  town;  and  a  very 
lively  stock  business  is  carried  on  in  West  Thirty-Third 
Street  after  the  exchanges  on  Broad  Street  have  closed 
and  sunk  into  darkness.  Some  drop  into  clubs  to  play 
billiards,  or  to  chat  with  acquaintances,  or  to  fight  a  bag, 
or  to  have  a  game  of  squash  and  get  a  swim  afterward. 
Some,  again,  are  bound  for  open-air  exercise  at  out-of-town 
clubs,  or  riding,  or  driving  in  the  park.     A  thousand  forms 


154  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

of  amusement,  or  ways  of  putting  in  a  couple  of  hours 
before  dinner,  offer  themselves  to  different  minds.  There 
are  those,  even  among  busy  men,  who  to  oblige  wife  or 
kindred  drop  in  at  teas  on  the  way  home,  or  go  to  art 
galleries  to  see  pictures,  or  stop  in  a  library  to  read  some 
new  book.  Of  course,  the  great  body  of  the  clerical  force, 
when  it  gets  a  chance,  scorns  all  these  more  effeminate 
forms  of  enjoyment  and  goes  to  the  ball  game,  sits  on 
the  bleachers,  and  roars  its  approbation  or  displeasure  at 
the  various  players. 

There  is  still  another  class,  of  those  living  on  the  island 
and  doing  business  in  the  lower  city,  that  gets  some  ra- 
tional enjoyment  and  exercise  out  of  its  late  afternoon 
hours.  This  is  the  class  that  walks  up  town  —  young 
men  of  high  spirits  walking  in  pairs,  middle-aged  people 
of  full  blood  in  need  of  exercise,  leisurely  old  men  out 
for  the  air  and  a  stroll.  Stick  in  hand  and  with  eyes 
open  for  all  that  passes,  they  march  up  past  the  Astor 
House,  look  across  at  MacMonnies'  '^ Nathan  Hale,"  sniff 
the  citified  trees  in  the  little  park,  and  feel  perhaps  some 
civic  pride  tugging  at  the  buttons  of  their  waistcoat  at  sight 
of  the  City  Hall.  The  tumult  and  the  roar  of  the  street 
usually  do  not  bother  them.  It  is  remarkable  how  dead 
the  sense  of  hearing  becomes  to  accustomed  sounds.  Oc- 
casionally a  person  drops  off  into  a  side  street,  leaving  the 
high  buildings  and  the  noise  of  Broadway  behind  him; 
but  that  is  not  necessarily  because  of  the  noise.     On  the 


THE   EBB  TIDE  155 

side  streets  there  are  unusual  sights  to  be  seen.  Some  of  the 
corners  and  buildings  and  little  parks  there  seem  to  have 
slight  relation  to  the  things  of  the  great  thoroughfares,  and 
the  people  there  care  nothing  about  business  on  the  ex- 
changes, and  know  nothing  about  the  commerce  or  life  of 
the  lower  city. 

The  East  Side  of  the  city  is  an  illustration  to  the  point, 
and  its  streets  and  people  are  interesting  to  look  at  if  one 
does  not  mix  in  too  much  of  the  social  question  with  his 
walk.  Superficially  regarded,  the  people  who  dwell  there 
seem  happy  enough.  They  talk  and  chatter  on  the  stoops 
while  the  children  play  in  the  gutter,  and  outwardly  there 
is  little  sign  of  woe.  Then,  too,  the  gay  colors  in  the 
costumes,  carts,  and  shop-fronts  lend  a  liveliness  which  is 
not  exactly  a  mask.  The  empty-headed  ones  really  are 
quite  content,  quite  happy.  They  live  in  the  present, 
taking  no  thought  for  the  morrow;  and,  perhaps,  have 
never  known  any  different  or  better  life. 

There  are  dozens  of  ways  by  which  the  East  Side  may 
be  reached,  but  for  the  man  walking  up  town  after  business 
hours  the  easiest  route  is  by  way  of  Park  Row.  After 
passing  City  Hall  Park  and  the  newspaper  offices,  with 
their  afternoon  crowds,  there  is  a  swift  change  of  houses 
and  people.  A  hundred  yards  beyond  the  Bridge 
entrance  is  sufficient  to  land  one  in  the  region  of 
pawn  shops,  cheap  clothing-stores,  small  brick  buildings, 
and  collarless  citizens.     The  nationality  is  not  here  very 


156  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

pronounced,  but  becomes  more  so  as  you  near  Chatham 
Square.  Just  off  the  square  to  the  east  there  is  a  for- 
lorn-looking scrap  of  ground  on  a  terrace  that  may  sug- 
gest the  dominant  race.  It  is  an  old  Jewish  cemetery 
(Beth  Haim),  and  the  tablet  on  the  iron  gate  proclaims  it 
the  oldest  of  its  kind  in  New  York,  it  having  been  pur- 
chased in  1681.  It  is  no  longer  in  use,  save  as  a  receptacle 
for  rubbish,  flung  over  the  fence  or  from  the  back  windows 
of  the  tenements  that  look  out  upon  it.  Even  its  sun- 
light is  in  measure  shut  out  by  the  strings  of  laundry 
that  hang  high  above  it  almost  every  day  in  the  week. 
But  all  the  Jews  of  the  quarter  are  not  under  its  sod. 
Any  street  now  that  leads  to  the  east  will  plunge  you  at 
once  into  the  ghettos.  There  are  nearly  a  million  Jews 
in  New  York  and  it  requires  no  still-hunt  to  find  them. 

But  the  sights  of  the  ghettos  are  not  exactly  pleasure- 
giving,  and  perhaps  a  less  depressing  view  of  our  foreign 
population  can  be  had  in  the  streets  west  of  the  Bowery 
and  east  of  Broadway.  Turn  then  to  the  left  at  Chatham 
Square  and  enter  Doyers  Street.  In  twenty-five  steps 
you  are  in  Chinatown  —  quite  another  world.  The  old 
New  York  buildings  with  iron  balconies  have  been  trans- 
formed by  signs,  symbols,  and  banners  into  something 
Oriental;  the  shop  windows  glitter  with  Chinese  trinkets, 
fabrics,  porcelains;  and  across  the  way  is  the  one-time 
Barnum  Museum,  refitted  and  redecorated  to  make  the 
Chinese  Theater  of  to-day.    The  curved  street  has  its  quota 


THE   EBB  TIDE  157 

of  celestials,  standing  in  store  fronts,  loitering  along  the  side- 
walks, or  chatting  with  one  another  —  almost  all  of  them 
in  native  costumes.  Behind  the  doors  and  windows  you 
get  an  occasional  glimpse  of  Chinese  wives  and  mothers; 
and  in  the  doorways  there  are  Chinese  babies  playing  on 
the  floor. 

Chinatown  is  a  small  but  rather  exclusive  little  spot, 
embracing  Doyers,  Pell,  and  the  lower  end  of  Mott  streets 
—  only  two  or  three  blocks.  There  one  has  a  whole  city 
in  miniature  —  Chinese  hotels,  restaurants,  shops,  offices, 
banks,  ''joints,"  what  you  will.  The  Chinese  are  quite 
undisturbed  in  their  possession,  save  by  the  Italians  who 
crowd  in  upon  them  and,  in  measure,  live  with  them.  The 
Italians  are  about  the  only  neighboring  nationality  that  will 
do  this.  The  Jews  are  close  at  hand  but  will  not  affili- 
ate. They  hold  aloof.  Nevertheless  all  three  nationalities 
touch  elbows  as  you  move  up  Mott  Street  and  come  to 
Bayard  Street.  The  Italians  now  dominate,  though 
Chinamen  are  seen ;  but  the  Jews  hold  the  end  of  the  next 
parallel  street  to  Mott  (Elizabeth),  and  crowd  through 
Bayard  toward  Mott.  In  fact,  the  foot  of  Elizabeth  Street 
is  the  great  East  Side  clothing  market  of  the  Jews.  There 
trousers  and  coat  brokers,  with  goods  upon  their  arms, 
move  along  the  streets  and  make  sales  in  the  saloons,  which 
are  the  chief  exchanges.  The  modest  charge  of  the  saloon 
is  that  after  each  sale  the  seller  must  buy  a  drink.  A 
thriving  business  is  thus  done  by  all  parties  concerned; 


158  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

and  the  clothing  curb  is  in  consequence  a  lively  and  a  much- 
sought  place. 

But  the  Jews  stop  at  the  junction  of  Bayard  Street 
with  Mott.  The  upper  part  of  Mott  for  many  blocks  is 
sacred  to  the  Italians,  as  is  also  Elizabeth  Street.  Here 
one  finds  a  repetition  of  the  poorer  quarters  of  Naples, 
with  crowded  tenements,  hundreds  of  men  and  women, 
thousands  of  children.  And  hereabouts  everything  rings 
with  color.  Doyers  and  Pell  streets  are  gay,  but  Mott 
Street  is  "loud."  Especially  is  this  true  when  there  is  a 
celebration  of  some  saint's  day,  say,  that  of  Saint  Michael 
the  Archangel.  Then  there  will  be  a  huge  baldachino  in 
gold  and  colors  erected  in  front  of  some  buUding,  with 
awnings  above  and  effigies  of  the  Madonna  and  ChUd  be- 
low; there  will  be  a  procession,  with  a  band  playing  Ital- 
ian airs,  and  rows  of  fire-crackers  for  many  blocks  that 
run  up  and  explode  with  a  tremendous  blast  in  front  of 
the  Madonna;  there  will  be  prayers  and  ceremonies  and 
goings-on  for,  perhaps,  days  at  a  time.  During  these 
celebrations  all  the  doorsteps,  windows,  and  balconies 
for  blocks  are  thronged  with  people  in  bright  dresses; 
there  are  flags  and  banners  and  f estoonings  in  many  colors ; 
the  curb  below  is  lined  with  push  carts  showing  brilliant- 
hued  fruits,  vegetables,  or  dry-goods;  while  scarlet  and 
violet  and  saffron  shawls  and  shirts  go  by  in  bands  and 
bunches.  The  color  is  more  astonishing  than  Naples 
itself. 


Pl.  oo.    -Pi^.si  Office  from  St.  Pal  l'??  Pouch 


THE   EBB  TIDE  159 

One  emerges  from  Mott  Street  with  his  impressions 
somewhat  confused.  It  is  a  strange  tangle  of  people, 
shops,  signs,  carts;  and  yet  out  of  it  all  comes  perhaps  a 
vivid  recollection  of  a  quaint  old  New  York  doorway  with 
fluted  wooden  columns  and  a  wrought-iron  railing  to  the 
stoop,  or  a  fine  old  church  with  square  tower  and  heavy 
stone-walls  now  being  occupied  by  possibly  two  or  three 
congregations  of  foreign  extraction,  or  a  new  schoolhouse 
of  excellent  architecture  and  superb  proportions  put  down 
here  by  the  municipality  to  educate  the  children  of  these 
Italians  in  American  ways.  It  is  difficult,  indeed,  to  real- 
ize that  this  is  New  York,  so  contradictory  seems  the  scene, 
so  unbelievable  the  mixture  of  the  old  and  the  new. 

If  one  turns  at  the  top  of  Mott  Street  through  Houston 
Street  to  the  east,  crossing  the  Bowery  to  Second  Avenue, 
he  finds  himself  in  the  midst  of  another  nationality,  and 
surrounded  by  entirely  different  associations.  It  is  the 
quarter  of  the  Hungarians ;  and  their  shops,  amusement 
halls,  and  houses  are  scattered  hereabouts.  It  is  a  much 
better  quarter  than  Mott  Street  —  in  fact,  with  its  bal- 
conies and  music,  its  cafes  with  potted  shrubs  and  bits  of 
grass,  its  houses  with  flowers  on  the  window-sills  and  vines 
on  the  walls,  it  is  very  attractive.  There  is  some  re- 
minder here  of  a  Paris  boulevard  of  the  second  class. 
Perhaps  this  is  due  to  the  presence  of  the  ''kave-haz" 
at  every  turn.  The  populace  are  devoted  to  the  caf6 
with  its  sidewalk  tables,  and  if  one  visits  such  a  place  as 


160  THE  NEW  NEW  YORK 

the  Cosmopolitan,  he  may  fancy  that  all  Hungary  in 
America  is  devoted  to  chess,  for  it  is  played  there  all  day 
and  most  of  the  night. 

But  here,  again,  on  Second  Avenue  is  the  strange  min- 
gling of  the  old  and  the  new.  Hidden  within  the  block 
of  Second  and  Third  streets  on  the  west  side  of  the  avenue, 
with  access  to  it  cut  off  save  by  a  grated  passageway,  lies 
the  quiet  and  beautiful  Marble  Cemetery,  which  few  people 
to-day  ever  see  or  hear  about.  It  is  a  part  of  old  New 
York,  a  chapter  that  is  now  closed  and  sealed  and  prac- 
tically forgotten.  Not  half  a  block  away,  on  the  north 
side  of  Second  Street  moving  toward  First  Avenue,  is  a 
larger  Marble  Cemetery,  exposed  to  the  street  yet  guarded 
by  an  iron  fence  —  another  quiet  and  beautiful  spot  of 
green,  surrounded  by  tenements,  crowded  by  newcomers, 
and  yet  holding  under  its  sod  some  of  the  people  of  old 
New  York,  Robert  Lenox,  Thomas  Addis  Emmet,  and 
their  contemporaries.  In  the  midst  of  a  roar  and  a  rabble, 
in  an  overcrowded  section  of  the  city,  these  clean  and 
well-kept  cemeteries  not  only  please  the  eye,  but  impress 
one  strangely  by  their  unruffled  calm,  their  abiding  peace. 

Something  of  the  same  feeling  is  produced  by  old  St. 
Mark's  at  Second  Avenue  and  Stuyvesant  Street.  The 
square  brown  church  with  its  simple  lines  of  roof  and 
steeple,  its  fine  porch  and  entrance,  its  green  grass  and 
(for  New  York)  ample  grounds,  is  very  impressive,  almost 
startling.     Such  things  do  not  occur  often  in  the  city,  and 


Pl.  34.  —  Mutt  Stuket 


THE   EBB  TIDE  161 

it  is  fortunate  that  St.  Mark's  still  endures  with  its  feel- 
ing of  restfulness  here  in  the  troubled  street  by  the  noisy 
tenements.  Counting  by  the  new  world  calendar  the 
church  has  stood  for  a  long  time.  It  is  old  —  several  gen- 
erations old.  On  its  site  Peter  Stuyvesant,  last  governor 
of  New  Amsterdam,  caused  to  be  built  a  chapel  for  the 
use  of  his  neighbors  and  himself,  who  were  living  near 
by  on  their  "bouweries."  The  chapel  was  in  use  in 
1660;  and  in  1682  Stuyvesant  died,  and  was  buried  in  a 
vault  beneath  it.  Afterwards  the  chapel  was  pulled  down 
and  in  its  place  arose  the  present  St.  Mark's.  This  was 
finished  in  1799,  though  the  steeple  was  not  completed 
until  1826.  Stuyvesant's  ashes  are  still  under  the  church ; 
while  under  the  flat  slabs  on  the  green  without  are  a  num- 
ber of  colonial  governors  and  other  notables  of  revolution- 
ary New  York. 

Further  up  Second  Avenue  one  comes  to  Stuyvesant 
Square,  lying  on  either  side  of  the  street,  and  still  pos- 
sessing somfe  large  trees,  some  last-century  houses,  and  the 
substantial  Friends'  Meeting  House,  with  its  suggestion  of 
Philadelphia  in  the  red  brick  and  white-marble  trimmings. 
This  is  a  delightful  portion  of  the  old  town,  but  one  that, 
unfortunately,  is  no  longer  occupied  by  old  New  York 
families.  With  a  few  exception-s  they  have  moved  out 
and  left  the  park  to  the  new  East  Sider.  The  reason 
given  is  that  access  to  it  is  now  attainable  only  by  passing 
through  disagreeable  streets  and  quarters.      In  this  re- 


162  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

spect  Gramercy  Park,  lying  a  few  blocks  to  the  northwest, 
is  better  off.  It  still  retains  many  fine  houses,  and  it 
also  keeps  an  air  of  tranquillity  quite  unshaken  by  the 
city's  roar. 

From  Gramercy  Park  the  transition  to  more  familiar 
streets  is  quickly  made.  Broadway  and  Madison  Square 
with  the  upper  avenues  are  near  at  hand;  and  perhaps 
the  pedestrian  thanks  the  Deity  under  his  breath  that 
there  are  upper  avenues.  Charity  worker  or  philanthro- 
pist though  he  may  imagine  himself,  he  usually  has  small 
desire  to  live  in  Mott  or  Bayard  Street.  The  problem  of 
congestion  in  the  tenement  district  is  one  that  he  will  help 
solve  with  purse  or  pen  or  voice,  but  at  a  reasonable  dis- 
tance. Settlement  work  is  not  to  every  New  Yorker's 
fancy. 

There  is  another  walk  up  the  East  Side  for  those  who 
prefer  to  see  the  city  without  so  much  admixture  of  the 
ghetto  or  ''Little  Italy."  It  is  by  way  of  Center  Street 
from  the  City  Hall.  This  takes  one  through  a  district 
fast  building  up  with  sky-scrapers.  The  new  Municipal 
Building  is  in  course  of  construction  at  the  right ;  and  there 
are  great  structures  of  a  forbidding  nature  on  the  left, 
designed  no  doubt  with  their  sculpture  to  be  ''Renais- 
sance" in  style,  but  are  instead  only  huge  conglomerations 
of  stone.  Farther  on  the  new  Tombs  in  gray  stone,  with 
the  suggestion  of  a  mediaeval  French  prison  in  its  roof  and 
towers,  is  more  interesting  to  the  artistic;  and  the  little 


Pl.  35.  —  The  New  Tombs,  Center  Street 


THE   EBB   TIDE  163 

prisoner's  bridge  that  runs  from  it  across  the  street  to  the 
Criminal  Court  Building  is  doubtless  more  harrowing  to 
the  morbid. 

Just  beyond  the  Criminal  Court  Building,  on  the  corner 
of  White  and  Lafayette  streets,  stands  a  striking  illustra- 
tion of  our  architectural  borrowings.  It  is  a  miniature 
French  chateau  doing  service  as  a  fire  engine  house  !  The 
amusing  as  well  as  amazing  part  of  it  is  that  it  answers 
its  purpose  very  well,  and  even  looks  quite  charming 
planted  there  on  the  curb  under  the  shadow  of  the  heavy 
Court  Building.  English,  in  suggestion  at  least,  is  the 
new  Police  Headquarters  at  Grand  Street.  It  suffers 
somewhat,  as  any  such  domed  building  must,  by  being 
too  much  shut  in  by  other  buildings.  There  is  little  op- 
portunity to  see  it  in  its  entirety,  to  study  its  proportions. 
It  is  right  enough  as  architecture,  but  does  not  belong  on 
the  watermelon  slice  of  ground  allotted  to  it. 

Moving  as  straight  up  town  as  the  now  divergent  street 
will  allow  brings  one  once  more  in  contact  with  tenement 
quarters  and  congested  populations.  They  soon  disappear, 
however,  as  one  passes  across  Bleecker  Street  into  the  re- 
gion of  Great  Jones  Street  and  Lafayette  Place.  Here 
the  walker  may,  if  so  disposed,  pass  straight  across  the 
city  to  what  was  once  Greenwich  Village  by  practically 
the  same  route  that  New  Yorkers  traveled  a  hundred 
years  ago.  What  is  now  the  Bowery  was  the  main  road 
leading  out  of  lower  New  York,  and  at  the  present  Astor 


164  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

Place  there  was  a  branch  road  leading  over  to  Greenwich. 
The  line  of  it  to-day  may  be  only  guessed  at,  but  undoubt- 
edly it  led  directly  past  Washington  Square  —  originally 
a  marsh  where  the  Dutch  shot  ducks,  and  afterward  a 
pauper  burying-ground.  When  the  branch  road  became 
a  fashionable  drive,  the  smart  folk  of  the  day  objected  to 
the  presence  of  the  burying-gound  and  it  was  moved 
farther  away  to  what  is  now  Bryant  Park.  Not  until 
1827  was  the  land  laid  out  as  a  park  and  called  Wash- 
ington Square,  and  not  until  some  years  later  was  the 
dignified  row  of  brick  and  marble  residences  on  the  north 
side  built.  From  the  square  onward  the  route  was  prob- 
ably by  Waverly  Place,  and  from  thence  into  the  Monu- 
ment Lane  of  history  but  no  longer  of  fact.  To-day  one 
goes  up  Waverly  or  down  Christopher  Street,  and  either 
thoroughfare  soon  lands  him  in  the  middle  of  what  was 
once  Greenwich  Village. 

Greenwich  is  one  of  the  very  oldest  places  on  the  island 
of  Manhattan.  At  first  it  was  an  Indian  village,  called 
Sapokanican,  and  was  probably  near  the  present  site  of 
Gansevoort  Market.  The  Dutch  governor,  Wouter  Van 
Twiller,  coveted  it,  and  finally  secured  it  as  a  tobacco 
farm.  The  farmhouse  he  built  upon  it,  as  Mr.  Janvier 
tells  us,^  was  the  first  building  erected  outside  of  the  Fort 
Amsterdam  region,  and  practically  the  beginning  of  Green- 
wich.    The  village  had  an  uneventful  history  under  the 

*  Janvier,  In  Old  New  York,  p.  85. 


ill 


l&^-^ 


vft 


iA  ^  '*^' 


»#»;* 


^^^T--^9*fW/- 


Pl.  36.  —  Grace  Church,  Broadway 


THE   EBB  TIDE  165 

Dutch,  and  when  it  passed  to  the  EngHsh  it  had  a  subur- 
ban character  for  many  years.  It  was  a  place  where  the 
Warrens,  the  Bayards,  and  the  De  Lanceys  had  country 
homes.  The  building  up  of  it  was  a  gradual  affair.  It 
was  of  some  proportions  when  in  1811  the  City  Plan, 
whereby  New  York  was  cut  up  into  checkerboard 
''blocks,"  came  into  existence.  The  new  plan  jostled 
the  rambling  nature  of  Greenwich  to  the  breaking  point, 
and  yet  left  some  of  its  quarter-circle  and  corkscrew 
streets  sufficiently  intact  for  the  people  of  the  middle 
nineteenth  century  to  build  substantial  dwellings  along 
them.  These  streets  with  their  red-brick  buildings  remain 
to  us  and  make  up  perhaps  the  most  picturesque  glimpse 
of  old  New  York  that  we  have.  Along  them  one  sees 
scattered  here  and  there  the  gable- wind  owed  wooden 
houses  of  an  earlier  period,  with  a  quaint  St.  Luke's 
Chapel,  or  a  scrap  of  a  park,  or  trees  and  vines  and 
garden  walls  that  now  look  strange  in  the  great  city. 

But  Greenwich  Village  is  one  of  the  fast-disappearing 
features  of  the  town.  And  here  again  the  contrast 
is  presented.  Above  the  gambrel  roofs  of  the  past  are 
lifting  enormous  sky-scraping  factories  and  warehouses, 
the  traffic  from  the  ocean-liners  rattles  through  the  streets, 
the  Ninth  Avenue  Elevated  roars  overhead.  St.  Luke's 
Park  (or,  as  it  is  now  called,  Hudson  Park)  has  been  re- 
modeled into  a  sunken  water-garden  with  handsome 
Italian-looking  loggias   that    make  one  gasp  when  seen 


166  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

against  the  old  brick  residences  on  either  side  of  it.  Abing- 
don Square  (named  for  the  Earl  of  Abingdon,  who  married 
one  of  the  Warrens,  and  thus  came  into  possession  of  many- 
acres  in  Greenwich)  has  only  its  name  left  to  suggest  a 
connection  with  history.  Everywhere  the  new  is  crowding 
out  the  old ;  and  before  long  Greenwich,  where  many  an 
old-time  New  York  family  made  the  money  that  carried  it 
up  to  a  brown-stone  front  on  Fifth  Avenue,  will  be  merely 
a  tradition. 

It  is  a  comparatively  clean  portion  of  the  town,  this 
Greenwich  district,  though  now  a  foreign  population  is 
crowding  in  upon  it  to  its  detriment.  A  walk  there  is 
entertaining  and,  in  some  of  the  streets,  quite  astonishing, 
not  alone  for  what  one  sees,  but  for  what  one  does  not  hear. 
In  spots  there  is  an  unwonted  silence,  as  though  one  were 
in  some  country  village.  Up  Washington  Street  and  up 
Tenth  Avenue  there  are  scraps  of  this  silence  to  be  found 
about  old  houses,  old  walls,  old  trees.  At  Twentieth 
Street  the  extensive  grounds  of  the  General  Theological 
Seminary  (formerly  called  Chelsea  Square),  with  their 
commanding  buildings,  seem  to  emphasize  the  stillness; 
but  at  the  much  traveled  Twenty-Third  Street  it  is  lost 
in  the  roar  of  trucks  and  trolleys. 

Unfortunately,  perhaps,  the  average  man  who  walks 
up  town  in  the  afternoon  takes  none  of  these  strolls  — 
neither  to  the  east  nor  to  the  west.  He  bolts  up  Broad- 
way with  the  mob,  pushing  his  way  along  the  sidewalks, 


THE   EBB  TIDE  167 

dodging  trucks  from  the  side  streets,  breathing  dust  and 
smoke  from  all  streets,  and  apparently  seeing  nothing, 
not  even  his  fellow-pedestrians.  With  some  fine  scheme 
in  his  head  (a  pot  of  money  its  ultimate  outcome),  he 
looks  at  passing  buildings,  lights,  and  colors,  but  receives 
no  impression  from  them.  He  is  out  for  bodily  exercise 
and  thinks  he  is  getting  it,  but  knows  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  work  his  head  in  another  direction  at  the  same 
time.  The  charm  of  Grace  Church  is  lost  upon  him ;  and 
Union  Square  appears  to  him  only  as  a  place  where  there 
are  some  trees,  park  benches,  and  dirty-looking  people 
seated  on  the  benches  reading  yellow-looking  newspapers. 
At  Madison  Square  perhaps  he  begins  to  take  notice ;  but 
not  of  Saint  Gaudens'  ''Farragut,"  nor  the  trees,  nor  the 
revel  of  color  all  about.  He  squints  an  eye  at  the  present 
condition  of  the  newest  a,scending  sky-scraper;  he  takes 
a  look  at  a  new  turn-out  or  automobile,  or  looks  over  the 
crowd  for  chance  acquaintances,  for  he  is  in  the  shopping 
district  and  there  are  many  smartly  dressed  men  and 
women  in  the  throng.  In  short,  up  town  has  been  reached, 
and  life  once  more  begins  for  him. 

He  takes  no  violent  interest  in  the  past  —  this  average 
Broadway  walker.  Apparently  all  that  he  knows  of 
happiness  lies  in  that  word.  To-day.  Yesterday  has  so 
completely  vanished,  has  been  so  thoroughly  swept-up 
and  carted  away,  that  the  record  seems  like  a  blank  to  him. 
Was  it  Phihp  Hone  who  declared  many  years  ago  that  New 


168  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

York  was  being  rebuilt  every  ten  years  ?  At  any  rate  the 
statement  had  some  truth  in  it  in  his  day,  and  is  perhaps 
even  truer  now.  The  past  is  quickly  obliterated  by  the 
present.  New  York  is  nothing,  if  not  modern.  And  its 
average  citizen  prides  himself  upon  being  up  to  the  day, 
if  not  ahead  of  it. 


FIFTH   AVENUE   AT   FOUR 


-t^^r  ■"'  "^. 


Pl.  X.       FIFTH    AVENUE   THROUGH    THE   WASHINGTON    ARCH 


HOSIA    HOTOHIHaAW    3HT    HOUO^HT    3UM3VA    HTTIT       .X  .j1 


CHAPTER  X 

FIFTH  AVENUE  AT  FOUR 

The  throng  of  people,  derived  from  many  sources,  that 
comes  up  Broadway  in  the  afternoon,  begins  to  disin- 
tegrate at  Twenty-Third  Street.  The  greater  part  of  it  is 
shunted  over  diagonally  upon  Fifth  Avenue  —  apparently 
pushed  over  by  the  stout  policeman  who  stands  in  the 
center  of  the  street  and  holds  out  a  commanding  left  hand 
at  the  cabs  and  a  compelling  right  hand  at  the  crossing 
crowd.  There  it  joins  with  the  throng  coming  up  Fifth 
Avenue,  and  the  united  force,  with  some  interlocking 
and  side-stepping,  moves  on  past  the  new  Fifth  Avenue 
Building,  and  then  divides.  Half  of  it  goes  on  into  the 
theater  region  of  Broadway,  and  the  other  half  crosses 
and  continues  up  the  avenue.  It  is  toward  Fifth  Avenue 
that  those  who  walk  up  town  usually  turn.  The  reason 
is  obvious  enough.  It  is  the  most  interesting  of  all  the 
New  York  streets,  especially  in  the  afternoon,  when  people 
are  out  driving,  or  are  moving  rapidly  along  the  side- 
walks for  exercise  or  shopping. 

It  is  a  wonderful  crowd  that  pours  along  Fifth  Avenue 
in  the  late  afternoon — wonderful  in  the  sense  that  you 

171 


172  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

really  do  wonder  who  they  are  and  where  they  all  come 
from.  It  is  different  from  the  lower  Broadway  crowd  in 
that  more  than  half  of  it  is  made  up  of  women  and  children, 
and  even  the  male  portion  of  it  shows  a  different  type 
from  those  who  buy  and  sell  on  the  exchanges.  Many  of 
the  people  here  are  in  business,  too;  but  it  is  a  retail 
affair,  and  has  to  do  with  shops  and  shopping.  With 
these  up-town  business  men  are  mingled  many  customers 
from  without,  or  retired  gentlemen  from  the  clubs  or 
residence  districts,  or  people  with  more  time  than  money 
who  wander  about  the  streets  for  amusement.  As  for 
the  women,  they  are  more  difficult  to  place  and  pigeon- 
hole. Some  represent  society  and  fashion  from  the  draw- 
ing-rooms, some  represent  maids  from  the  nursery  and  the 
back  stairs,  many  are  from  out  of  town,  many  are  just  out 
of  school,  not  a  few  belong  to  the  neighboring  shops. 
Aside  from  the  men  and  women  who  are  more  or  less 
native  to  New  York,  aside  from  people  of  business  or 
leisure,  there  is  always  a  great  host  of  strangers  on  parade. 
From  Maine  to  California,  from  China  to  Peru,  from 
Teheran  to  London,  they  gather,  gather,  gather,  on  Fifth 
Avenue.  It  is  truly  a  wonderful  throng.  It  is  more 
cosmopolitan,  more  stirred  and  intermixed,  than  any 
seen  in  Paris  or  Cairo  or  Hong-Kong  —  a  gathering  inter- 
national in  blood,  if  not  in  name. 

That   statement   would    seem   to    arrogate   much   im- 
portance, much  world-interest  attaching  to  New  York; 


Pl.  37.  —  Fifth  Avenue  at  Thirty-Fourth  Street 


FIFTH   AVENUE   AT   FOUR  173 

but,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  merely  meant  to  suggest  the 
very  apparent  blend  of  races.  In  London  or  Berlin  or 
Rome  one  meets  on  the  promenades  a  passing  people 
that  is  positively  English,  German,  or  Italian,  so  far  as  the 
type  is  concerned.  But  not  so  in  New  York.  The  Ameri- 
can type  is  there  to  those  who  have  been  long  enough  in 
the  country  to  see  it ;  but  it  does  not  predominate.  And 
there  are  many  varieties  of  it,  many  blends  of  it,  looking 
so  much  like  the  original  that  they  are  confusing.  Four 
schoolgirls  coming  down  the  street  may  all  walk  and  talk 
and  giggle  alike,  and  have  dresses  that  are  made  by  the 
same  dressmaker;  they  may  even  look  alike  in  general 
resemblance  one  to  another,  but  the  dark  eyes  of  one  may 
hark  back  to  an  Italian  grandfather,  the  light  hair  of 
another  to  a  Germanic  origin,  the  tall  figure  of  the  third 
to  English  ancestry.  If  the  fourth  girl  happens  to  be  an 
American  unto  the  ninth  generation,  she  will,  even  then, 
hardly  be  more  than  a  variety  peculiar  to  a  section  of  the 
country.  The  Boston,  the  New  York,  and  the  Baltimore 
girls  have  distinct  individualities  of  their  own;  and  the 
great  west  in  the  last  fifty  years  has  developed  still  another 
personality  vaguely  called  'Hhe  western  girl."  A  com- 
posite photograph  of  them  all  would  no  doubt  reveal  some- 
thing looking  like  the  average  graduate  of  Wellesley  or 
Smith  College ;  and  yet  that  in  itself  would  prove  nothing, 
would  fail  to  fix  the  American  type  or  make  it  recognizable. 
The  type  is,  indeed,  elusive;    which  is  to  say  that  it 


174  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

is  not  one  formula  that  we  see  in  the  moving  throng  but 
a  thousand,  not  one  distinct  face  but  faces  reminiscent 
of  the  whole  white  race.  The  giggling  schoolgirls  may- 
remind  you  only  of  schoolgirls,  but  the  dark-haired,  dark- 
eyed  young  woman  w4th  the  sharp  profile  behind  them 
makes  you  think  of  Bucharest  and  Rumanian  types,  or 
possibly  Moscow  and  Russian  Jewesses.  The  dandified 
young  man  with  her  who  carries  a  club-cane  for  arm 
exercise,  and  wears  spats  on  his  shoes,  and  has  a  very 
high  shirt-collar,  looks  as  though  he  might  be  a  Dane  or  a 
Swede.  Yet  you  are  not  greatly  surprised  to  find  them 
both  talking  English  in  a  way  that  shows  them  born  in 
America.  A  group  of  students  from  Columbia  University 
has  the  same  variety.  It  is  not  that  a  Brazilian,  a  Japa- 
nese, a  Russian,  or  an  Italian  mingles  with  the  group,  — 
that  is  a  common  enough  sight  here  or  elsewhere, — but 
somehow  a  tang  of  Brazil,  Russia,  or  Japan  seems  in  the 
blood  and  in  the  faces  of  our  so-called  native-born  Amer- 
icans. The  result  is  a  masque  difficult  to  penetrate,  a 
riddle  hard  to  answer;  and  yet  a  mystery  that  has  its 
interest. 

Is  it  true  then  that  the  American  people  is  so  inter- 
married and  interbred  that  the  parent  stock  is  no  longer  to 
be  found?  Not  exactly.  New  York  is  New  York,  and, 
racially,  it  does  not  stand  for  the  whole  United  States. 
On  the  street  —  on  Fifth  Avenue  in  the  afternoon  — 
the  crowd  does  not  even  represent  the  New  Yorkers. 


Pl.  38.  —  St.  Patrick's  Cathedral  from  Madison  Avenue 


FIFTH   AVENUE    AT   FOUR  175 

Ask  yourself,  if  you  will,  how  many  in  all  that  hurrying 
mixture  of  folk,  charging  in  corporals'  guards  up  and  down 
the  sidewalks,  were  born  here  in  the  city.  You  know 
that  not  one  in  ten  can  claim  such  birth.  Nearly  a 
quarter  of  the  whole  present  population  is  Jewish,  which 
gives  a  hint  as  to  what  the  total  foreign  population  may 
be.  As  for  the  Americans  within  the  city,  think  of  the 
thousands  who  have  struck  it  rich  or  poor  in  Michigan 
or  Texas  or  Montana,  and  have  come  to  New  York  to 
spend  or  win  money;  of  the  hundreds  of  thousands  from 
all  over  America  who  have  drifted  here  for  one  reason 
or  another.  The  throng  is  in  New  York,  of  New  York, 
and  it  practically  makes  New  York,  without  being  native- 
born,  or  typical  of  the  city  proper,  or  of  the  country  at 
large. 

What  then  does  this  mob  in  the  street  really  stand  for? 
Nothing  that  can  be  told  in  a  sentence.  It  is  a  flux,  an 
uneven  mingling  of  many  elements,  a  quantity  with 
value,  purpose,  and  destiny  as  yet  quite  undetermined. 
Our  foreign  friends  who  come  to  us  from  time  to  time  and 
go  home  to  write  us  up  in  the  magazines,  have  neither 
difficulty  nor  hesitancy  in  telling  us  just  what  it  means, 
and  assuring  us  that  we  are  all  going  to  glory  or  the  other 
way,  as  the  case  may  be;  but  the  New  Yorker  who  has 
had  the  phenomenon  under  observation  all  his  life  is 
frank  to  confess  that  he  does  not  know  what  will  come 
out  of  it.     The  careless  stranger  in  Gotham  who  strolls 


176  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

along  the  streets  is  perhaps  more  rational  than  either  of 
them,  and,  in  consequence,  is  more  happy.  He  does  not 
bother  with  the  problem  at  all.  He  is  content  to  see 
humanity,  male  and  female  after  its  kind,  file  by,  and 
to  be  interested  in  it  largely  as  a  curiosity.  That  is  the 
easier,  if  not  the  more  intelligent,  way. 

Costume  is  often  a  badge  of  nationality  where  the  face 
is  a  mystery,  yet  it  is  not  frequently  in  evidence.  Oc- 
casionally a  Turk,  or  a  Persian,  or  a  high-class  Chinaman 
moves  along  Fifth  Avenue  in  native  dress,  with  native  dig- 
nity ;  but  the  great  throng  is  usually  inconspicuous  in  that 
respect  —  dressing  decently,  sometimes  extravagantly, 
and  almost  always  picturesquely,  but  in  the  prevailing 
American  or  European  style.  The  men  cling  to  blacks  and 
grays  and  browns,  whereas  the  women  often  appear  in 
brilliant  colors,  especially  in  the  spring  of  the  year,  at  the 
Easter  season.  That  most  of  those  seen  in  lively  colors 
belong  to  the  shop-girl  and  domestic  circles  does  not  de- 
tract in  the  least  from  the  color  effect  of  the  avenue. 
Those  who  count  themselves  in  society  and  leaders  of 
fashion  sometimes  dress  just  as  extravagantly,  but  they 
do  not  show  themselves  on  the  sidewalk  on  Easter  Sunday. 

The  mixture  of  nationalities,  if  responsible  for  the 
types  that  one  meets  on  the  avenue,  is  also,  in  a  sec- 
ondary sense,  responsible  for  the  varied  coloring.  Cer- 
tainly there  is  great  variety,  and  the  stroller  who  is  out 
for  color,  local  or  otherwise,   finds  enough  to  bewilder 


l(j^ 


\^ 


<^v-vj: 

^/ 


1/  ■*^' 
'  ill  '^ ' 


"»&«, 


Pl.  39.  —  Upper  Fifth  Avenue 


FIFTH   AVENUE   AT   FOUR  177 

him.  Group  succeeds  group  hurrying  by,  and  no  two  of 
thein  quite  alike  in  any  respect.  Girls,  troops  of  girls,  in 
grays,  in  browns,  in  blues,  greens,  pinks,  and  mauves, 
quite  unconscious  of  everything  but  their  own  talk; 
old  women  in  silks  and  bombazines,  with  querying 
glances  up,  around,  and  about ;  butlers  and  haberdashery 
clerks  and  men-milliners  somewhat  puffed  up  with  their 
own  importance,  trying  to  assume  the  blazing  ties  and 
swagger  airs  of  their  masters  or  patrons;  old  clubmen 
with  white  waistcoats  and  top  hats;  fat  people  with 
apoplectic  faces;  shopkeepers  and  agents  and  salesmen 
in  stripes  and  checks ;  churchmen  in  clerical  garb ;  nuns 
in  black ;  emigrants  in  caps,  staring  round  them  with  a  wild 
surmise,  —  all  move  and  intermingle  in  the  currents.  And 
with  them,  pushing  against  them,  running  into  them,  are 
children  and  maids  and  baby  carriages  in  fluffy  colors, 
messenger  boys,  telegraph  boys,  newsboys,  bundle  carriers, 
smart  youths  with  Boston  terriers,  peddlers  with  arms 
full  of  puppies,  and  sometimes  schoolboys  on  roller  skates 
to  add  to  the  confusion  and  the  consternation. 

With  all  its  '^ tackle  trim  and  sailing  free,"  in  exalted 
spirits  and  by  no  means  to  be  snubbed  or  subjected  to 
indignities,  it  is,  nevertheless,  a  good-natured  throng  like 
its  down-town  prototype.  It  seldom  complains.  Cabs 
and  automobiles  threaten  its  heels  or  toes  as  they  cut 
through  into  the  side  streets,  but  the  crowd  merely  dodges 
and  swerves ;   brusque  young  men,  walking  rapidly,  push 


178  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

ahead  and  flourish  sticks  or  umbrellas  close  to  following 
faces,  but  there  is  no  protest ;  platforms  are  mounted  and 
descended  over  new  construction  work,  and  the  whole 
moving  mass  may  be  shunted  into  the  street  and  around 
an  excavation  or  a  mass  of  heavy  stone  or  iron  being 
hoisted  aloft,  but  nothing  is  said.  Not  even  the  snow  and 
mud  and  water  on  the  cross-walks  in  winter  bring  forth 
more  than  a  mild  protest.  For  a  people  easily  excited, 
and  sometimes  given  to  violent  punishments  for  minor 
offenses,  it  certainly  keeps  its  temper  well. 

The  street  from  gutter  to  gutter  is  just  as  full  of 
vehicles  as  the  sidewalks  are  of  moving  people.  And  the 
same  variety  rules,  the  same  wonderment  is  excited  in 
the  one  as  in  the  other.  Carriages  of  all  sorts  crowd  along 
in  processional  line.  Victorias,  landaus,  broughams,  road 
wagons,  occasionally  an  old-fashioned  '^  buggy,"  mingle 
with  motor-buses,  cruising  cabs,  countless  makes  and 
colors  of  automobiles,  delivery  wagons,  express  wagons, 
furniture  vans,  short-haul  trucks,  motor-cycles,  ordinary 
bicycles.  Policemen,  mounted  or  standing,  are  in  the 
center  of  crowded  cross-streets  to  hold  up  the  line  of  car- 
riages for  a  moment  and  allow  a  stream  of  foot-passen- 
gers to  pass  over ;  but  as  a  rule  everyone  does  his  own 
scrambling,  keeps  from  under  the  horses'  feet,  and  gets 
about  or  across  as  best  he  can.  The  cabs  pay  little 
attention  to  foot-passengers,  and  the  automobiles  pay  still 
less.     They  all  move  as  fast  as  the  police  will  allow,  and 


FIFTH   AVENUE   AT   FOUR  179 

sometimes  a  little  faster.  The  mounted  police  occasionally 
stop  motor-cars  in  other  places,  but  not  frequently  on 
Fifth  Avenue.  The  congestion  of  travel  there  in  the 
afternoon  does  not  admit  of  speeding;  and  besides,  a 
certain  amount  of  hurry  is  recognized  as  a  necessary  evil. 

It  is  usually  a  more  well-to-do  class  of  people  seated 
in  the  carriages  and  cabs  than  walks  upon  the  sidewalk, 
and  perhaps  it  represents  fashion  or  society  better,  since 
neither  of  them  cares  much  for  going  about  on  foot  in 
New  York.  But  it  is  not  more  American  than  the  class 
on  the  sidewalk,  and  it  may  -not  be  any  better  bred  or 
better  born.  It  is  gay-looking,  however,  and  makes  quite 
an  impression.  Automobiles,  driven  perhaps  by  stout, 
red-faced  men  with  handsome,  overdressed,  rather  flashy 
young  women  on  the  back  seat;  victorias  with  elderly 
people  in  black;  broughams  with  single  occupants,  and 
the  men  on  the  box  dressed  up  to  the  color  of  their 
horses'  coats;  hansoms  and  auto-cabs  with  young  people 
leaning  on  the  closed  doors;  omnibuses  with  top-loads 
of  passengers ;  huge  cars  with  a  crowd  of  out-of-towners 
stretching  their  necks,  '' seeing  New  York,"  and  having 
misinformation  shouted  at  them  through  megaphones 
at  the  same  time;  four-in-hands  with  blowing  horns 
and  guests  on  the  seats  that  try  to  look  indifferent,  as 
though  long  accustomed  to  coaching;  vehicles,  big  and 
little,  conspicuous  and  inconspicuous,  very  smart  and 
very  shabby,   all  sweep  along  in  line,  up  or  down  the 


180  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

avenue,  the  occupants  bowing  to  acquaintances,  talking 
to  one  another,  giving  orders  to  the  footman,  stopping  to 
run  into  shops,  full  of  energy,  full  of  life,  apparently 
happy,  as  though  living  were  a  joy.  Occasionally  the 
carriages  huddle  up  along  the  curbs  and  stand  still  to  let 
a  fire  engine  or  a  hospital  ambulance  rush  by,  which  in- 
timates to  them  that  there  is  some  unhappiness  in  the 
world ;  but  the  faces  are  sober  for  only  a  moment.  People 
on  Fifth  Avenue  are  more  or  less  on  parade,  and  what- 
ever their  griefs  or  sorrows  this  is  not  the  place  to  give 
them  voice  or  look.  '- 

It  seems  an  unending,  interminable  crowd  that  moves 
by  foot  and  horse  and  automobile  along  the  avenue  in  the 
afternoon.  The  men  go  down  town  in  the  morning  and 
the  women  are  left  at  home  to  their  own  devices.  They 
manage  to  worry  through  the  early  hours  in  domestic  or 
social  duties,  but  by  the  afternoon  they  must  get  out, 
must  have  air.  Many  of  them  seek  it  on  the  avenue  en 
route  to  the  Central  Park,  perhaps  stopping  to  shop  or  call 
on  the  way.  They  are  met  on  the  avenue  by  the  busy 
and  the  idle  of  the  other  sex,  and  added  to  by  children  and 
nurses,  by  simple  young  folk  of  fashion,  by  clerks  and 
messengers  and  touts,  by  shopmen  and  agents  and  travel- 
ers and  foreigners.  Hence  the  great  crowd  and  its  in- 
finite varieties. 

Hence  also  some  of  the  great  noise  that  wells  up  from 
the  street  and  reverberates  along  the  walls  of  the  high 


FIFTH   AVENUE   AT   FOUR  181 

buildings.  There  is  no  limit  placed  upon  individual  li- 
cense in  this  respect,  and  the  havoc  that  is  wrought  among 
people  with  highly  strung  nerves  is  not  to  be  calculated. 
It  seems  something  of  an  American  habit  to  make  as 
much  noise  as  possible.  Engines,  tugs,  steamboats, 
motor-cars,  trolleys,  bicycles,  ambulances,  all  carry  gongs 
or  whistles  and  ring  or  blow  them  like  mad  on  the  slight- 
est provocation.  There  never  was  an  evil  crying  so  loudly 
for  reform  as  this.  One  has  small  patience  with  it  because 
so  much  of  it  is  unnecessary. 

And  the  automobile  atmosphere !  —  the  smoke  arising 
from  the  laziness  or  carelessness  of  chauffeurs,  and  the  dust 
from  the  constant  friction  of  travel !  Much  of  this  is 
again  unnecessary,  and  warrants  a  certain  amount  of  bad 
temper  on  the  part  of  those  living  along  the  avenue.  If 
there  is  one  person  more  than  another  in  this  year  of 
grace  who  needs  to  feel  the  strong  arm  of  the  law,  it  is  the 
careless  and  speed-mad  automobile  driver.  The  smoke 
that  afflicts  Fifth  Avenue  is  of  his  manufacture,  and 
there  is  no  need  for  it.  The  cities  of  Europe  do  not  have 
it ;  they  would  not  allow  it.  So,  too,  the  matter  of  dust 
might  be  remedied  by  proper  street-sprinkling,  though 
there  is  difficulty  in  this,  because  the  water  freezes  on  the 
asphalt  in  winter  and  makes  traffic  dangerous.  Still,  the 
patience  of  the  long-suffering  people  keeps  such  abuses 
alive.  It  tolerates  intolerance  and  apparently  acquiesces 
in  lawless  liberty. 


182  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

The  background  that  this  noise  reverberates  from, 
that  this  dust  and  smoke  keep  hiding  and  revealing,  that 
these  people  and  carriages  and  horses  and  flunkies  and 
foot-passengers  are  cast  upon,  is  novel  enough,  perhaps 
unique  in  the  world's  history.  Fifth  Avenue  is  said,  with 
some  ostentation,  to  represent  more  wealth  than  any 
other  street  in  the  world.  The  statement  is  trite,  and 
has  small  value  for  us.  It  formerly  meant  that  those  who 
owned  the  residences  around  Murray  Hill  were  the  richest 
people  in  the  world ;  but  many  of  those  residences  have 
been  abandoned,  the  people  have  gone  farther  up  town, 
and  Fifth  Avenue,  below  Fifty-Ninth  Street,  is  fast 
turning  into  a  street  of  shops.  It  is  the  background  of 
shops,  hotels,  and  residences,  mingling  and  running 
together,  that  really  seems  unique. 

The  cause  of  the  mixture  is  not  far  to  seek.  The  shops 
follow  the  hotels  and,  to  some  extent,  subsist  upon  them. 
Wherever  the  hotel  guests  are  quartered  there  are  the 
eagles  gathered  together.  Naturally  there  is  a  lively 
demand  for  rentable  buildings  about  Thirtieth  and  Thirt}^- 
Fourth  streets.  Every  hall  bedroom  or  crack  in  the  wall 
in  that  locality  is  a  valuable  asset  and  rents  as  an  office 
or  at  least  a  showcase.  Trade  also  follows  the  fashionable 
residence  district.  Ten  years  ago  this  district  lay  on  the 
west  side  of  the  city,  but  since  then  it  has  been  shifted 
to  the  east  side.  The  better  class  of  shops  no  longer 
follow  Broadway  but  Fifth  Avenue,  overflowing  on  the 


FIFTH   AVENUE   AT   FOUR  183 

side  streets  in  small  concerns  that  cannot  pay  the  heavy 
rentals  of  the  avenue  itself.  What  the  avenue  is  destined 
to  become  everyone  knows  since  the  Altman  store  was 
erected  between  Thirty-Fourth  and  Thirty-Fifth  streets. 
The  Tiffany  and  Gorham  buildings,  and  the  sky-scrapers 
that  are  going  up  in  their  neighborhood,  merely  carry 
out  the  Altman  idea  that  Fifth  Avenue  below  the  park  is 
no  longer  a  street  of  residences,  but  a  place  where  a  vast 
retail  trade  is  carried  on. 

The  flow  of  business  keeps  pushing  up  the  avenue, 
meeting  with  a  check  in  the  Public  Library  at  Fortieth 
Street,  but  stopping  for  only  a  moment.  It  is  felt 
again,  almost  immediately,  at  Forty-Second  Street  and 
beyond.  Once  more,  at  Fiftieth  Street,  there  is  an  inter- 
ruption. The  imposing  Cathedral  of  St.  Patrick  seems  to 
call  a  halt,  while  beyond  it  the  Union  Club,  and  opposite 
it  the  row  of  Vanderbilt  houses  with  the  University  Club, 
make  quite  a  barrier.  It  is  said  that  the  property- 
owners  thereabouts  will  not  sell  for  store  purposes  and 
that  they  will  protect  that  spot  of  the  avenue  as  a  residence 
quarter.  The  tale  has  been  told  before,  and  answers 
perhaps  for  the  present  generation  of  land-owners;  but 
what  those  who  inherit  will  do  no  man  can  say.  In  the 
past  they  have  generally  preferred  fresh  fields  and  pastures 
new,  and  allowed  the  old  places,  beset  by  a  circle  of  tall 
buildings,  to  be  torn  down  and  rebuilt  for  trade.  As  for 
the  Cathedral-Vanderbilt  reservation,  a  business  incentive 


184  THE  NEW   NEW   YORK 

bubbles  up  just  beyond  it  in  two  lofty  fashionable  hotels, 
and  sooner  or  later  large  department  stores  will  come  up 
to  meet  them.  Then  the  reservation  will  be  between  the 
jaws  of  the  hills  —  the  sky-scrapers  above  and  below  it 
—  and  residence  there  will  be  no  longer  desirable. 

The  Plaza  at  Fifty-Eighth  Street  is  another  gathering 
place  for  high  hotels  that  nod  and  beckon  at  the  shops 
to  come  on.  It  is  an  imposing  square,  opening  as  it  does 
upon  the  Central  Park,  and  illuminated  as  it  is  by  that 
superb  statue  of  Sherman  by  Saint  Gaudens.  In  itself 
it  is  perhaps  a  better  suggestion  of  how  the  new  city  will 
look  when  completed  than  almost  any  other  portion  of 
New  York.  The  tall  buildings  hold  together  as  a  group 
and  are,  in  measure,  harmonious  as  to  scale.  To  be  sure, 
they  make  the  square  look  small  and  the  trees  of  the 
Central  Park  are  dwarfed  by  them;  but  that  could 
hardly  be  avoided.  The  squares  and  streets  of  the  city 
could  not  be  widened  to  meet  the  scale  of  the  sky- 
scrapers. They  will  look  smaller  and  narrower,  losing 
somewhat  in  grandeur,  as  the  buildings  continue  to  ascend. 
The  only  compensation  that  one  can  squeeze  out  of  it  is 
that  the  streets  will  become  more  picturesque,  just  as  the 
narrow  passageways  of  Cairo  are  now  more  picturesque 
than  the  boulevards  of  Paris. 

Beyond  the  Plaza  the  avenue  runs  on,  the  Central  Park 
on  one  side  of  it  and  a  long  row  of  ornate  residences  on 
the  other.     It  is  not  likely  that  business  will  break  into 


Pl.  40.  —  Fifth  Avenue  from  Metropolitan  Museum 


FIFTH   AVENUE   AT   FOUR  185 

this  row  for  many  years  to  come,  if  at  all.  It  is  more  valu- 
able as  a  residence  than  as  a  business  quarter,  fronting  as 
it  does  upon  the  park.  As  such  it  is  closely  held  by  people 
of  wealth,  who  have  erected  residences  that,  too  often, 
proclaim  wealth  without  as  well  as  within.  Some  of  the 
houses  there  are  ostentatious,  to  say  the  least.  There  is 
apparent  in  them  a  striving  for  the  magnificent  which 
frequently  results  in  the  ridiculous.  The  architectural 
pretense  of  one  thing  when  it  is  clearly  apparent  that  it 
is  another  thing;  the  wrong  use  of  columns,  keystones, 
arches,  windows ;  the  over-ornamentation  of  fine  stone  that 
would  look  so  much  better  unadorned,  all  suggest  that  the 
average  millionaire  and  his  wife  have  difficulty  in  spending 
their  money  sensibly,  and  that  their  architect  is  something 
of  a  goose  in  the  bargain. 

The  excuse  for  the  architect  is  that  he  is  interfered 
with  and  not  allowed  to  carry  out  his  plans;  but  aside 
from  that  he  too  often  fails  to  rise  to  the  occasion.  Never, 
since  the  days  of  the  Renaissance,  has  he  had  such  a  chance, 
with  such  new  problems  to  solve,  and  such  unlimited 
means  to  solve  them  with,  as  just  now  in  New  York.  In 
sky-scraper,  storehouse,  armory,  hotel,  apartment-house, 
dwelling-house,  there  have  been  a  thousand  opportunities 
for  the  genius  to  proclaim  himself.  Many  times  the  work 
has  been  done  in  a  new  and  original  way ;  but  many  times, 
too,  it  has  been  a  copy  of  an  older  building,  or  a  con- 
servative variation  of  a  known  success.     Over-decoration, 


186  THE   NEW   NEW    YORK 

rather  than  want  of  proportion,  has  usually  been  its 
crying  fault.  The  householder  has  only  a  fagade,  say, 
thirty  feet  in  width,  with  which  to  estabUsh  the  identity 
of  his  house  from  that  of  his  neighbor.  He  must  use 
something  individual  and  original  on  the  outside,  and  that 
something  is  almost  always  ornamentation  —  chasing  or 
carving  in  stringcourse  or  window-frame  or  doorpost. 
But  it  is  seldom  just,  or  true,  or  quite  right;  it  is  often 
overdone,  or  trivial,  or  out  of  scale. 

Yet  with  all  that  is  bad  or  indifferent,  with  all  that  is 
abortive  or  absurd  in  Fifth  Avenue  houses,  there  is  still 
a  leaven  of  good,  and  much  that  may  be  justly  regarded 
with  pride  as  the  promise  of  better  things.  The  striving 
for  results  is  not  a  thing  to  groan  over  in  despair.  It  at 
least  shows  an  attempt  at  originahty,  a  discontent  with 
present  attainment,  if  you  will,  which  is  always  the  pre- 
liminary step  to  new  creation.  Out  of  much  travail,  per- 
haps, shall  come  a  newer  architecture  —  a  nobler  art. 


SHOPS   AND    SHOPPING 


Pl.  XI.  -  BROADWAY    FROM    MADISON    SQUARE 


35IAU92    MOaiQAM    MO^l^    YAWQAOaa    -  .IX  .jT 


't  f^ 


Mr 


V-'i'^ 


CHAPTER  XI 

SHOPS  AND  SHOPPING 

The  wonderment  at  the  enormous  sums  of  money  made 
down  town  in  New  York  is  paralleled  by  a  still  greater 
wonderment  over  the  ease  with  which  those  sums  are 
disbursed  up  town.  Paul  may  plant  and  Apollos  may 
water,  but  their  domestic  partners  know  how  to  distribute 
the  increase.  Not  all  of  it.  There  is  much  said  and  writ- 
ten about  people  in  the  city  ^'living  beyond  their  means/' 
and  many  there  are  who  do,  no  doubt;  but  the  ma- 
jority is  much  too  shrewd  and  far-seeing  for  that.  It 
spends,  and  spends  recklessly;  but  not  everything  is 
flung  into  the  yearly  budget.  There  is  usually  the 
wherewithal  for  more  than  one  rainy  day. 

The  shopping  habit  in  New  York  is  said  to  be  distinctly 
feminine.  The  majority  of  men  hate  the  selection  and 
buying  of  articles  and  usually  put  it  off  on  their  wives 
or  sisters  or  other  female  relatives,  even  to  the  buying  of 
such  personal  effects  as  ties,  gloves,  shirts,  jewelry,  and 
frequently  suits  of  clothing.  And  the  women  usually 
take  very  kindly  to  the  task.  Many  of  the  mid-wealthy 
class,  so  to  speak,  have  few  domestic  duties  or  troubles; 

189 


190  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

they  live  in  apartments  and,  to  avoid  the  servant  problem, 
they  usually  get  their  breakfasts  and  luncheons  in  the 
restaurant  downstairs,  and  their  dinners  at  the  larger 
places  outside.  Between  meals,  time  is  often  plentiful, 
superabundant,  even  wearisome  to  the  women  flat-dwellers. 
They  do  not  go  down  town,  and  they  cannot  stay  in-doors 
forever;  so,  usually,  they  go  out,  ''just  to  do  a  few  er- 
rands." This  means  shopping.  There  is  nothing  else 
for  many  a  poor  woman  to  do. 

The  tradition  obtains  in  New  York  that  the  women  shop- 
pers are  given  to  much  newspaper  reading,  with  a  noting  of 
''special  sales"  of  dry-goods  and  the  like;  that  they  dearly 
love  a  bargain  counter  and  go  in  with  a  rush  to  buy  unavail- 
able and  superfluous  articles  just  because  they  are  cheap; 
that  the}^  are  easily  lured  by  nickel-catching  devices  and  are 
made  giddy  by  a  window  dressing  or  a  perfervid  showcase. 
Possibly  this  is  masculine  ridicule  flung  out  to  check  the 
expense  account.  The  casual  observer  does  not  pretend 
to  delve  into  so  intricate  a  problem.  He  knows  merely  that 
there  is  always  a  plenty  of  shoppers  in  the  street,  that 
they  are  nine  out  of  ten  of  them  wearing  petticoats, 
and  that  the  congestion  of  petticoats  is  greatest  in  the 
region  where  special  sales  and  bargain  counters  are  adver- 
tised. The  conjunction  of  the  crowd  with  the  counter 
may  be  accident,  but   it  looks   predetermined. 

And  what  a  crowd  !  The  residents  of  the  up-town  apart- 
ment-houses are  only  a  part  of  it.     Rich  and  fashionable 


SHOPS   AND   SHOPPING  191 

people  like  to  shop,  too ;  and  besides,  there  is  a  great  pro- 
cession that  comes  in  from  the  suburbs  every  morning  by 
ferry,  tunnel,  and  railroad,  and  makes  a  straight  line,  not 
for  Wall  Street,  but  for  the  shopping  district.  The  many 
forces  usually  gather  and  thicken  along  upper  Sixth 
Avenue  or  Broadway  between  Madison  Square  and  Thirty- 
Fourth  Street,  or  on  Twenty-Third  Street,  and  by  noon 
they  fairly  seethe.  Many  are  so  interested  in  the  game 
of  purchasing  that  they  will  not  leave  a  shop  for  luncheon. 
They  take  an  elevator  and  go  to  the  top  of  the  building 
where,  in  all  the  large  departm.ent  stores,  there  is  a  thirty- 
seven  or  a  forty-nine  cent  luncheon,  or  its  equivalent,  to  be 
had,  served  with  expedition  and  sometimes  with  courtesy. 
After  luncheon  the  shopping  is  continued,  or  a  matinee  at 
the  theater  is  introduced  as  a  side  diversion.  By  five 
o'clock  the  out-of-towners,  somewhat  worn  from  wres- 
tling with  the  pave,  the  mob,  and  possibly  the  luncheon, 
are  on  the  way  home ;  the  up-towners  are  squeezing  into 
surface  or  elevated  cars;    and  the  day's  work  is  done. 

There  is  a  difference  in  the  shopping  crowds,  dependent 
upon  the  places  where  they  are  seen.  Occasionally  along 
Broadway  or  Twenty-Third  Street  one  sees  a  mingling 
of  all  the  clans,  all  the  circles,  all  the  shopping  world ;  but 
usually  certain  classes  go  to  certain  sections  and  not  else- 
where. Time  was,  and  not  so  long  ago  at  that,  when  the 
fashionable  gathering  place  was  Tenth  Street  and  Broad- 
way, with  an  overflow  into  Fourteenth  Street  as  far  west 


192  THE   NEW   NEW    YORK 

as  Sixth  Avenue;  but  the  smart  shops  have  followed  the 
residences,  and  the  people  that  once  went  there  do  so  no 
more.  Yet  there  are  shops  and  shoppers  still  in  Four- 
teenth Street.  It  is  now  the  stamping  ground,  not  of  the 
poorest,  but  of  the  poorer  classes;  and  in  its  window 
fronts  are  displayed  dress-goods,  haberdashery,  head- 
gear, furniture,  wall-papers,  that  seem  expensive  at  any 
price.  No  doubt  the  shopkeepers  there  take  great  credit 
to  themselves  for  discerning  what  the  poor  and  ignorant 
want,  and  giving  it  to  them;  but  it  is  rather  hard  upon 
the  poor. 

Fourteenth  Street  is  always  crowded  with  shoppers,  and 
as  they  move  by  one  seems  to  recognize  factory  girls, 
domestics,  policemen's  wives,  janitors'  daughters,  mingling 
with  suburban  shoppers,  and  people  of  more  means  from 
up  town.  The  older  people  are  often  dressed  shabbily 
and  look  dingy  in  the  face  and  hair;  the  younger  ones 
are  garbed  flashily  and  cheaply,  their  clothing  as  pinch- 
beck as  their  jewelry.  They  look  well-fed,  laugh  much, 
and  are  not  objects  of  pity,  save  that  they  are  misguided, 
and  spend  their  money  without  substantial  return.  It  is 
a  somewhat  awkward,  heavy-moving  crowd.  It  has  the 
pace  of  those  who  are  much  upon  their  feet  and  moves  in 
a  tired  way.  The  quickness  of  the  Twenty-Third  Street 
people  —  people  who  look  as  though  they  never  did  any 
work  and  were  in  continual  need  of  exercise  —  is  absent. 

The  sidewalks   on   lower   Sixth   Avenue   have   similar- 


Pl.  41.  —  Broadway  near  Tenth  Street 


SHOPS   AND   SHOPPING  193 

looking  groups  and  processions.  They  keep  threading  in 
and  out  of  small  shops  and  cheap  stores,  hoping  in  each 
new  place  to  get  what  they  want  for  less  money  than  has 
just  been  asked  them.  In  the  end  perhaps  they  have 
worn  out  more  in  shoe  leather  than  they  have  saved  on 
gloves  or  hat. 

As  you  move  up  Sixth  Avenue  the  shoppers  begin  to 
look  more  prosperous,  more  alert,  and  more  sure  of  what 
they  want.  They  are  largely  suburbanites;  and  the 
woman  who  has  come  down  from  Tarrytown,  or  in  from 
Plainfield,  has  the  campaign  of  the  day  all  planned  before- 
hand, and  the  courage  to  drive  it  through  to  a  finish. 
She  and  her  cohorts  have  little  fear  of  cabs  and  cars  and 
poHcemen.  They  charge  across  the  street  in  phalanxes, 
choke  up  the  sidewalks,  squeeze  through  revolving  doors, 
pack  the  elevators,  besiege  the  counters,  fill  up  the  res- 
taurants. All  kinds  and  conditions  of  women  are  here 
—  some  stout,  some  thin,  some  lively,  some  severe,  some 
handsome,  some  commonplace.  All  the  colors  of  the 
rainbow  flutter  and  stream  from  them  at  times.  Many 
of  them  wear  grays  or  dull  browns  or  greens,  but  occa- 
sionally some  bird  of  paradise  floats  by  to  lend  a  flash  of 
high  color  to  the  scene.  Up  and  down  and  across  the 
streets  the  long  lines  come  and  go.  Occasionally  they 
get  caught  at  the  foot  of  an  elevated  station  and  whirl 
about  in  an  eddy,  or  get  choked  in  the  door  of  a  depart- 
ment store;  but  they  unwind  and  quickly  move  on  again 


194  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

—  a  perspiring,  excited,  somewhat  violent  throng  that  fre- 
quently forgets  its  manners  and  its  dignity  in  remembering 
its  immediate  mission. 

The  shoppers  on  Twenty-Third  Street  are  merely  a 
right-angle  pipe  connection  of  the  band  on  Sixth  Avenue ; 
and  yet  as  soon  as  one  mingles  with  the  people  on  this 
cross  street  he  recognizes  quite  a  different  element.  That 
everyone  hurries  in  New  York  is  a  commonplace,  but 
this  newer  element  seems  to  make  haste  with  more  ease 
and  carriage.  It  is  still  a  very  miscellaneous  throng,  hav- 
ing its  sharp  contrasts  of  wealth  and  poverty,  charm  and 
repulsiveness,  happiness  and  inisery;  and  its  constituent 
members  in  their  actions  are  not  unlike  the  shoppers  on 
Sixth  Avenue,  They  hang  in  clusters  before  the  show- 
windows,  gather  hke  aggregations  of  ants  about  some  new- 
found wonder,  then  disintegrate,  move  on,  drop  in  some 
notion  store,  gather  once  more  about  a  counter,  separate 
and  move  on  again.  It  is,  however,  an  orderly,  self-con- 
tained crowd,  wears  good  clothes,  does  not  care  to  have 
them  soiled  or  torn  in  a  crush,  and  has  the  idea  that 
there  is  something  "common"  about  bargain-counter 
scrambles.  Possibly  it  has  more  money  in  its  purse  than 
the  crowd  on  Sixth  Avenue,  and  that  makes  all  the  difference 
in  the  world  in  one's  point  of  view.  Besides,  it  is  closely 
connected  with  Fifth  Avenue  —  the  pipe  line  extending 
through  from  both  avenues,  and  being  supplied  from  both 
ends. 


SHOPS   AND   SHOPPING  195 

Fifth  Avenue,  of  course,  furnishes  shops  and  shoppers 
of  the  more  fashionable  kind.  The  stores,  with  a  few 
exceptions,  are  not  large  department  affairs,  but  they 
are  large  enough  to  cause  surprise  when  it  is  considered 
that  each  place  handles  perhaps  only  one  kind  of  goods. 
The  great  jewelry  stores,  the  silverware  establishments, 
the  china  and  glass  concerns,  are  examples  to  the  point. 
It  is  what  is  called  a  '^ better  kind  of  retail  trade" 
that  is  met  with  here.  It  is  the  place  where  rare 
rugs,  furniture,  tapestries,  pictures,  bric-a-brac,  books, 
laces,  silks,  hats,  flowers,  are  bought;  where  fashionable 
tailoring  and  millinery  are  carried  on;  but  where  the 
smaller  and  cheaper  articles  such  as  cottons,  ginghams, 
notions,  ribbons,  are  usually  not  in  stock.  Nothing 
cheap  is  sold  on  Fifth  Avenue.-  There  are  no  bargain 
counters,  no  forty-nine-cent  ruHng  prices;  and  people 
do  not  go  there  without  a  plethoric  purse.  Everything 
costs  half  as  much  again  as  it  could  be  bought  for  around 
the  corner  —  a  statement  that  finds  constant  assertion 
and  denial,  and  leads  up  to  endless  argument  from  in- 
dividual experience.  The  statement  usually  meets  with 
acquiescence,  however,  except  from  those  who  perhaps 
seek  to  justify  their  own  extravagance. 

And  there  are  hosts  of  the  extravagant  in  this  shopping 
district.  They  usually  have  accounts  at  the  various  places, 
and  have  things  '^ charged" ;  so  that  the  day  of  reckoning 
is  not  the  day  of  sinning.     They  buy  what  they  want,  and 


196  THE  NEW   NEW  YORK 

oftentimes  much  that  they  do  not  want  and  cannot  use ; 
but  they  seem  not  to  be  worried  by  errors  of  judgment. 
Things  are  sent  back,  or  ''changed,"  or  more  often  perhaps 
packed  off  to  the  closets  or  garrets  upstairs.  The  reckless- 
ness and  the  wastefulness  of  the  shoppers  on  Fifth  Avenue 
are  promoting  causes  of  the  high  prices  that  prevail  there. 
The  shoppers  also  have  much  to  do  with  setting  the  pace 
for  the  flashy,  garish  populace  of  the  city.  The  pinch- 
beck of  the  Bowery  or  Harlem  is  but  the  imitation  of 
Fifth  Avenue  glitter. 

But  what  could  be  expected  of  the  newly  arrived  daugh- 
ters and  wives  (yes,  sons)  of  commerce  who  have  to  keep 
down  the  paternal  income  by  ''doing  things  socially"  ! 
They  carry  it  off  with  quite  an  air,  they  swagger  and  pre- 
tend and  make  good  feints  at  aristocratic  bearing;  but 
ever  and  anon  some  infamy  of  taste  crops  out  to  suggest 
they  are  still  not  very  sure  of  their  position.  It  takes 
several  generations  to  establish  gentility  in  the  blood, 
and  even  then  bad  breeding  and  lack  of  education  will 
come  to  the  surface  in  the  shape  of  a  hat  or  the  cut 
of  a  dress,  as  in  the  use  of  a  fork  or  a  phrase.  But,  all 
told,  the  commercial  set  of  New  York  is  not  so  bad. 
Considering  its  opportunities  it  handles  itself  with  more 
aplomb  than  the  corresponding  classes  in  London,  Berlin, 
or  Paris.  Doubtless  the  people  of  the  older  business 
centers  were  once  the  same  in  degree  if  different  in  kind. 
Carpaccio's   characters   from   the   Venetian   life   of   the 


SHOPS   AND   SHOPPING  197 

fifteenth  century,  as  Paolo  Veronese's  of  the  sixteenth 
century,  look  like  models  of  good  taste  to-day,  but  in 
their  time  they  must  have  been  regarded  as  splendidly 
barbaric. 

In  its  varied  and  multifold  functions  society  in  New 
York  shows  as  well  perhaps  in  shopping  as  in  anything 
else.  The  very  manner  in  which  the  women  step  out 
of  their  carriages,  give  directions  to  the  footmen,  and  drift 
across  the  sidewalk  into  a  shop  entrance,  has  an  air  of 
distinction  about  it.  The  general  impression  is  that  the 
air  is  something  courtly  or  princely,  but  in  real  life 
princesses  and  duchesses  are  often  heavy  and  awkward 
in  their  exits  and  entrances,  somewhat  dowdyish  in  their 
clothing,  and  would  be  mistaken  for  very  common  folk  by 
the  mob.  The  American  woman  has  very  little  in  common 
with  them.  She  is  more  graceful,  more  spirited,  and  far 
more  ornate.  She  is  dressed  and  sometimes  overdressed 
—  especially  when  she  goes  shopping.  Her  garments  are 
of  the  best  and  most  costly  materials.  That  is  the  fault 
with  them ;  they  are  too  good  for  the  street  and  the  shop. 
They  fit  her  exactly,  perfectly,  precisely.  That  again  is 
an  objectionable  feature.  They  fit  too  well  and  give  the 
impression  that  they  were  meant  for  the  stage  rather  than 
the  street.  If  we  cling  to  the  old  idea  that  garments  are 
somewhat  like  a  picture-frame  and  should  not  be  noticed, 
that  if  conspicuously  good  or  conspicuously  bad  they  are 
objectionable,  then  the  American  woman  has  decidedly  too 


198  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

much  garmenting.  But  she  does  not  think  so ;  and  (to 
bury  precedent  for  a  moment)  she  certainly  carries  her 
clothes  as  no  other  woman  ever  did,  carries  them  as  though 
born  to  them  and  for  them.  And  how  she  walks  !  What 
a  bearing  she  has !  No  wonder  that  the  strangers  who 
come  here  are  forever  falling  in  love  with  the  American 
girl.  She  is  something  of  a  fetich,  to  be  sure;  but  there 
is  some  excuse  for  the  worship.  She  is  far  from  being  a 
wooden  idol. 

All  the  shop  people  in  New  York  are  proficient  in  the 
art  of  making  their  windows  interesting  to  the  people 
passing  in  the  street.  There  are  professional  men  known 
as  '^window  dressers"  who  are  said  to  earn  unusual  sums 
through  their  skill  in  displaying  articles  to  the  best  ad- 
vantage in  shop  windows.  Very  attractive  are  some  of 
these  windows,  not  only  in  their  arrangement,  but  also  in 
the  quality  of  the  articles  shown.  In  Europe  things  of 
fineness  and  value  are  hidden  in  the  secret  places  of  the 
shop  and  brought  out  only  by  special  request,  but  in 
America  they  are  often  openly  displayed.  This  does  not 
mean  jewels  and  goldsmith's  work  alone,  but  rare  rugs, 
rich  silks,  fine  porcelains,  Japanese  embroideries,  works 
of  art.  It  is  not  an  unusual  thing  to  see  a  twenty-thou- 
sand-dollar picture  displayed  in  the  window  of  a  Fifth 
Avenue  gallery,  upon  a  background  of  valuable  tapestry ; 
and  the  window  of  a  china  shop  may  show  Chinese  porce- 
lains that  are  worth   many  times   their  weight  in  gold. 


^i^t 


><V'  -., 


Pl.  42.  —  Twenty-Third  Street 


SHOPS   AND  SHOPPING  199 

On  the  inside  of  a  New  York  store  one  is  astonished  by 
the  stock  carried.  Whatever  kind  of  stock  it  may  be,  it  is 
almost  always  large  in  quantity  and  in  variety.  Floor 
after  floor  is  filled  to  overflowing  with  silks,  rugs,  fine 
linens,  woolens;  with  tons  upon  tons  of  bronzes,  silver- 
ware, china;  with  uncountable  boxes  of  hats,  shoes, 
gloves,  fans ;  with  tens  of  thousands  of  books,  engravings, 
etchings,  photographs.  The  furniture  stores  seem  capable 
of  supplying  beds  and  chairs  and  chests  of  drawers  for  all 
creation;  there  are  enough  articles  de  Paris  in  the  shops 
on  or  about  Twenty-Third  Street  and  Fifth  Avenue  to 
cover  half  the  drawing-room  tables  in  New  York;  and 
in  the  huge  dry-goods  stores  along  Broadway  and  in  the 
side  streets  between  Union  and  Madison  squares,  there  are 
''dress  goods"  sufficient  in  quantity  to  clothe  half  the 
women  and  children  in  the  land.  The  bulk  of  goods 
carried  by  the  New  York  retail  merchants  is  something 
enormous. 

Of  course,  such  a  volume  of  stock  means  a  vast  trade, 
and  argues  the  existence  of  a  rigid  system  of  doing  business. 
This  is  perhaps  better  exemplified  in  the  department 
stores  than  elsewhere  —  stores  so  large  that  some  of  them 
cover  a  whole  city  square  or  block,  and  mount  skyward  in 
a  dozen  or  fifteen  stories.  The  system  of  such  a  store 
means  the  command  and  discipline  of  several  thousand 
employees.  The  messengers,  clerks,  floor-walkers,  cash 
boys,  cashiers,  make  a  small  army  in  themselves.     Each 


200  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

one  has  his  duty  to  perform,  reports  and  is  amenable  to  his 
superior  officer,  and  takes  orders  without  questioning. 
The  two  thousand  employees  of  a  Sixth  Avenue  store  are 
possibly  assigned  to  the  selling  of  twenty  thousand 
different  articles.  Almost  anything  can  be  bought  there 
—  a  sealskin  sack,  a  set  of  furniture,  an  automobile,  a 
spool  of  cotton,  a  canary  bird,  or  a  litter  of  guinea  pigs. 
All  commerce  is  its  province.  It  is  the  distributing  agent 
of  anything  found,  grown,  or  manufactured,  and  it  seeks 
to  satisfy  all  human  wants  (including  afternoon  tea), 
without  leaving  the  premises.  No  wonder  that  womankind 
finds  it  an  attractive  place.  It  is  a  merger  of  interna- 
tional exposition  and  social  reception,  where  you  not 
only  see  the  sights,  but  meet  your  friends.  And  occa- 
sionally there  is  an  escape  from  the  place  without  having 
purchased  anything. 

The  system  of  cash  and  change  and  charge  in  these 
stores  is  expeditious,  bewildering  to  those  who  do  not 
understand  it ;  and  also  at  times  maddening  to  those  who 
do  understand  it.  The  system  is  unalterable,  procrustean, 
and  always  manages  to  stretch  you  on  the  rack  rather  than 
the  management.  You  have  to  ''do  business"  in  their 
way,  and  the  fact  that  you  are  the  party  of  the  second  part 
in  the  contract  —  the  one  that  makes  the  contract  possible 
by  paying  the  consideration  —  does  not  have  any  weight 
with  them.  The  exasperating  feature  of  it  is  that  the  store 
managers  are  not  unlike  railway  and  hotel  men  in  that  they 


'|SS?-M"Jiffij; 


^4     ■' 


U^ 


"T" 


Pl.  43.  —  Altman's,  Fifth  Avenue 


SHOPS   AND  SHOPPING  201 

seem  to  regard  their  ''system"  of  rules  as  equivalent  to 
state  statutes.  They  ignore  the  inalienable  right  of  the 
party  of  the  second  part  to  make  conflicting  rules  of  his 
own,  if  it  so  please  him.  However,  the  systems  of  the  de- 
partment stores  are  usually  accurate  in  their  workings, 
and  are  as  fair  to  all  parties,  perhaps,  as  could  be  expected. 
It  must  be  remembered  that  they  have  to  deal  with  people 
by  the  thousands  —  fifty  or  a  hundred  thousand  in  a  single 
day  —  and  how  their  different  accounts  with  their  conse- 
quent "deliveries"  and  "returns"  are  kept  requires  some 
imagination  to  grasp. 

In  addition  to  all  this  selling  over  the  counter  there  is  a 
very  important  "mail  department"  in  these  stores,  through 
which  goods  are  retailed  over  the  whole  of  the  United 
States,  Canada,  Alaska,  Mexico,  South  America,  and  Eu- 
rope. Catalogues,  and  sometimes  large  magazines,  with 
descriptions  and  price  lists,  are  sent  everywhere.  From 
these  the  country  people  in  Michigan  or  Missouri  make 
selections  and  order  by  numbers.  The  cash  is  sent  by 
draft  or  money  order ;  and  the  goods  are  forwarded  by 
mail.  Almost  every  kind  of  merchandise  is  sent  through 
the  mails  —  hats,  shoes,  cooking  utensils,  piece  goods,  any- 
thing that  is  not  bulky  like  furniture  or  breakable  like 
bottled  liquors.  In  the  aggregate  this  trade  through  the 
mails  is  very  large.  It  is  impossible  to  compute  the 
volume  of  it.  The  retail  trade  of  New  York  is  something 
quite  beyond  figures. 


202  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

At  the  Christmas  holidays  trade  increases  a  hundred 
fold.  The  stocks  of  the  stores  are  swollen  to  the  point 
where  goods  seem  to  be  pushing  out  the  windows  and  doors, 
the  clerical  and  messenger  force  is  nearly  doubled,  and 
the  crowd  of  buyers  is  trebled  and  quadrupled.  The 
streets  are  inundated  with  people,  the  stores  are  flooded, 
the  counters  and  cases  are  like  islands  in  a  sea.  Buyer 
and  seller,  cash  boy  and  floor-man,  shoplifter  and  detective, 
are  whirled  about  like  driftwood.  To  an  aboriginal  it 
would  look  like  humanity  gone  mad,  but  there  is  some 
method  in  it.  Eventually  everyone  gets  what  is  wanted, 
gets  a  seat  or  a  strap  in  a  car,  gets  home  to  tell  the  tale 
at  the  dinner  table.  And  once  more  the  good-nature  of 
the  crowd  prevails  above  any  little  misunderstanding  of 
the  moment.  It  is  something  of  a  marvel  that  so  many 
people  of  so  many  different  minds  and  wants  can  still 
meet,  adjust  their  differences  or  agreements,  and  then  go 
their  ways  in  peace. 

One  asks  himself,  again,  who  they  all  are,  what  they  all 
mean,  or  what  the  part  they  have  in  this  scheme  of  things 
entire.  What  is  the  object  of  this  energy  displayed, 
this  time  given,  this  money  spent?  Perhaps  it  is  not  al- 
ways revealed  on  the  surface,  but  there  usually  is  some 
object  in  it  other  than  idle  amusement  or  personal  vanity. 
The  knick-knacks  that  a  woman  may  pick  up  in  a  shop,  the 
new  rugs  or  rolls  of  wall-paper  or  cheap  etchings  that  she 
may  take  home,  may  be  nothing  of  importance  in  them- 


f  •  Jl   '•       -      -!?.-irB.«SSift^S'»>1 


Pl.  41.  -  Tiffany's,  Fifth  Avenue 


SHOPS   AND   SHOPPING  203 

selves;  but,  somehow,  she  instinctively  feels  that  they 
will  make  the  house  look  more  comfortable  or  cheerful 
or  refined,  and  thus  add  to  the  pleasure  of  the  family.  It 
is  the  same  with  a  great  many  of  the  hundreds  of  thou- 
sands. They  are,  unconsciously  perhaps,  striving  to  make 
someone  happier,  to  give  an  uplift  to  the  home,  to  make 
life  more  worth  the  living.  And  in  the  aggregate  of  the 
mass,  in  the  combined  aspirations  of  the  throng,  what  se- 
quence must  be  forthcoming  ?  Surely  a  broader  outlook, 
a  nobler  living ;  and,  ultimately,  a  higher  civilization.  No 
doubt  some  of  the  energy  employed  is  wasted,  completely 
dissipated  and  lost ;  but  much  of  it  redounds  to  our  good, 
makes  for  righteousness,  and  possibly  finds  us  each  to- 
morrow farther  than  to-day  along  the  pathway  of  the 
better  life. 


NEW   YOKK  BY  NIGHT 


pl.  XII.  — coney  island  — on  the  beach 


H0A3a    3HT    HO-     QHAJai    Y3H00    -  .HX    jS 


'^^V.-S«!' 


*i.Jf 


•fm^^'t 


,? 


CHAPTER  XII 

NEW   YORK    BY    NIGHT 

Before  it  is  dark  in  the  city  the  electric  street  lamps, 
hanging  from  their  steel  yard-arms,  begin  to  sizzle  as 
though  trying  to  live  up  to  a  steady  illumination,  and 
their  ground-glass  globes  take  on  beautiful  opalescent 
tints  of  pink  and  lilac.  This  is  the  preliminary  sputtering 
suggestive  of  the  coming  current.  It  ceases  as  the  current 
grows  stronger;  and,  as  the  dark  falls,  the  lilac  globes 
turn  into  marked  spots  of  light  and  become  related  and 
associated  with  other  spots  of  light.  From  block  to 
block  balls  of  yellow  or  orange  or  pure  white  or  blue- 
violet  appear.  The  city  is  soon  illuminated  —  parts 
of  it  almost  ablaze.  At  its  height  the  brilliancy  of  Paris, 
^'the  city  of  light,"  seems  just  a  little  dull  by  comparison. 

All  over  the  city  the  lights  are  burning.  The  Brooklyn 
Bridge  seen  from  Governor's  Island  is  a  tracery  of  filigree 
work  set  with  silver  stars,  underneath  on  the  river  and 
around  on  the  Hudson  the  ferry-boats  come  and  go  like 
huge  fireflies,  the  South  Ferry  region  and  the  Battery 
glare  with  arc  lights,  the  elevated  overhead  trails  a  chain 
of  fire,  the  high  office-buildings  show  ten  thousand  illumi- 

207 


208  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

nated  windows,  the  dome  of  the  World  Building  is  a 
glittering  ring  in  the  heavens,  the  Singer  tower  is  a 
nocturne  in  gold  and  blue. 

After  nine  o'clock  many  of  the  down-town  lights  upon 
towers  and  domes  are  extinguished,  the  office  windows 
show  dark,  the  few  shop  fronts  burn  only  night  lights  for 
the  patrolmen.  The  electric  street  lamp,  with  its  blue 
tinge,  flares  along  the  thoroughfares,  but  the  dark  shadow 
accompanies  it.  People  on  the  street  pass  infrequently, 
and  the  cab  is  not  often  seen.  The  trolley  clangs  along 
Broadway  and  the  elevated  continues  to  roar  from 
Church  Street,  but  otherwise  the  stillness  is  almost  pro- 
found. Especially  is  this  true  of  Wall  and  Broad  streets, 
where  in  the  daytime  thousands  are  coming  and  going. 
What  silence  under  the  walls  of  the  great  sky-scrapers ! 
And  what  shadows  those  twenty-story  buildings  cast  down 
into  the  narrow  streets  !  The  electric  shaft  flashes  up  into 
them,  piercing  them  here  and  there,  but  not  annihilating 
them.  Along  the  cornices  and  stringcourses  and  bottle- 
shaped  cupolas  they  still  linger. 

Around  Old  Trinity  at  the  head  of  the  street,  with  its 
well-like  area,  the  shadows  gather  deeper  and  even  more 
mysteriously.  The  giant  sky-scrapers  about  it  impose  their 
purple  silhouettes  one  upon  another  until  everything 
looks  a  little  out  of  focus  and  uncertain  in  dimensions. 
Goblin  shapes  spread  upward  on  the  night  veil,  or  dance  like 
specters  on  the  flat-faced  walls,  while  possibly  around  the 


Pl.  4.5.  —  Sherman  Statue  —  Evening 


NEW   YORK   BY   NIGHT  209 

top  of  the  well  runs  a  series  of  sparkles  and  glitters  struck 
off  by  the  moonlight  falling  upon  peaks  and  pinnacles. 

Broadway  seems  lighter  than  the  other  streets  of  the 
lower  city,  owing  no  doubt  to  the  continuous  string  of 
trolleys  that  run  there.  And  the  trolleys  with  their  lights 
seem  to  lead  but  one  way,  and  that  up  town.  Perhaps 
it  is  the  human  moths  moving  in  that  direction  that  give 
one  such  an  impression,  but  certainly  there  is  the  feeling 
that  the  grand  fireworks  are  somewhere  under  the  reflect- 
ing sky  of  the  upper  city.  At  Union  Square  there  is 
apparently  an  increase  in  the  power  of  the  lights  (an  illu- 
sion, no  doubt),  on  Fifth  Avenue  an  increase  in  their 
numbers;  but  the  central  illumination  of  all  is  on  upper 
Broadway,  in  the  theater  district.  Beyond  that  to 
Seventy-Second  Street,  along  Amsterdam  and  West  End 
avenues  and  Riverside  Drive,  around  Columbia  University 
and  along  the  Harlem  River,  even  creeping  across  the 
bridges  at  the  upper  end  of  the  city,  the  links  of  light 
extend. 

Of  course,  much  of  this  lighting  is  carried  out  by 
the  city  lamps  and  by  trolleys ;  but  the  brilliancy  of  certain 
streets  and  spots  like  Herald  Square,  or  Times  Square,  or 
the  shop  portion  of  Fifth  Avenue,  is  materially  augmented 
by  the  quantity  of  show-windows,  and  the  prevalence 
everywhere  of  the  electric  sign.  All  the  store  fronts  are 
now  illuminated  by  electricity  or  a  brilliant  quality  of 
gas,  and  some  of  the  larger  places  have  rows  of  Ughts  run- 


210  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

ning  along  edges  and  corniceS;  thus  outlining  the  whole 
building  from  foundation  to  roof.  The  electric  sign 
now  goes  along  with  every  place  of  amusement,  and  is 
frequently  flashed  at  night  from  large  commercial  houses, 
hotels,  railroad  sheds,  and  steamboat  docks.  When  to 
this  is  added  the  glitter  of  the  ordinary  advertisement 
sign  from  scores  of  roof  tops  and  wall-spaces,  the  total 
effect  becomes  quite  bewildering. 

Generally  speaking,  the  sign  is  the  same  nuisance  in 
New  York  that  it  is  in  London  or  Paris  —  only  more  so. 
It  is  put  up  almost  everywhere  from  one  end  of  the  city  to 
the  other.  Every  piece  of  boarding,  every  bare  wall, 
every  decrepit  roof  top  or  vacant  window,'  is  plastered  with 
signs.  Sandwich  men  trail  them  along  the  curbings; 
wagons  parade  the  streets  with  them.  Advertisements 
are  in  your  room  at  the  hotel,  on  your  dinner  card,  on  your 
car  tickets,  your  wrapping  paper,  your  cigar  bands. 
Wherever  the  public  goes,  the  sign  takes  up  the  trail  and 
follows  after.  It  even  pursues  people  out  into  the  country, 
where  it  covers  the  fence  boards  and  crawls  with  enormous 
letters  over  the  farmers'  barns  and  stables.  If  you  fly 
by  fast  train  and  look  out  of  the  window,  lo,  the  sign  is 
there !  Rows  and  rows  of  boardings,  with  grotesque  and 
hideous  personifications  upon  them,  parallel  the  great 
trunk-lines  out  of  the  city  for  many  miles,  disfiguring  the 
landscape,  ruining  many  an  amiable  disposition,  and 
making  a  farce  of  any  pretense   to   love  of    nature,   or 


NEW   YORK   BY   NIGHT  211 

love  of  one's  fellow-man,  or  even  common  suburban 
decency. 

Perhaps  the  most  degrading  thing  about  all  these 
signs  is  that  three-quarters  of  them  advertise  businesses 
with  which  no  respectable  person  would  be  connected, 
and  push  forward  wares  that  no  one  but  a  charlatan 
would  lend  his  name  to.  Patent  medicines  and  beauty 
lotions  lead  the  list,  with  questionable  statements  about 
the  value  of  canned  soups,  or  pickles,  or  whiskies,  coming 
in  as  a  good  second.  There  is  not  one  sign  in  a  dozen  that 
tells  the  truth,  or  even  pretends  to  do  so.  It  is  a  blatant 
puffing  of  somebody's  business  at  the  expense  of  the  public 
patience.  Wherever  one  turns,  he  has  Smith's  hair  tonic, 
or  Brown's  corsets,  or  Jones's  consumption  cure  thrust  at 
him,  until  he  wonders  if  the  world  was  made  solely  for  the 
rapacious  energy  of  the  Smiths,  Browns,  and  Joneses. 
The  low  mendacity  exercised  in  tricking  the  foolish  or  the 
unfortunate  is  not  more  reprehensible  than  the  brutal 
disregard  of  other  people's  rights  in  country  view,  or  city 
street,  or  public  conveyance. 

And  there  is  not  the  saving  grace  of  art  to  make  the 
evil  less  repulsive.  The  whole  battalion  of  New  York  sign- 
makers  could  hardly  muster  the  genius  of  one  Cheret. 
Occasionally  something  proves  attractive  in  color  or  is 
novel  in  design ;  but  usually  attention  is  compelled  by  the 
strident  quality  of  blue  or  red,  or  the  exaggerated  pro- 
portions of   the  figures  or  letters.     Crudeness  mixed  with 


212  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

vulgarity  seems  to  be  purposely  chosen,  as  though  the 
object  of  advertising  was  to  put  you  in  a  rage  rather  than 
lure  you  on  to  further  inquiry.  And  the  coarseness  of  the 
onset  does  enrage  many  nervous  and  sensitive  people. 
The  vociferous  injunction  in  poison  greens  to  '^ Drink 
Somebody's  Coffee"  or'^Smoke  Everybody's  Cigarettes" 
is  an  insult  in  itself.  And  it  might  be  done  with  delicacy, 
with  insinuating  grace  of  line,  even  with  a  charm  of  form 
and  color.  But  there  is  too  much  of  the  get-rich-quick  in 
the  average  advertiser  to  pursue  modest  methods.  He 
seeks  to  stampede  you  with  a  shout,  and  pick  your  pocket 
while  he  pushes  you. 

In  New  York  at  night  some  of  the  cruder  advertising 
disappears,  or  reappears  in  a  less  objectionable  form.  The 
electric  signs  show  everywhere  and,  though  one  wearies 
unto  death  with  what  they  say,  the  light  of  them  helps  on 
the  general  illumination  and  is  rather  attractive  than 
otherwise.  Roof  Hnes  are  their  favorite  locations,  though 
doorways,  arches,  chimneys,  vacant  wall-spaces,  are  all 
utilized.  Letterings,  patternings,  arabesques,  figures  of 
birds  and  beasts  and  men,  are  outlined  by  small  electric 
globes,  and  the  whole  thrust  upon  the  night  in  giant 
proportions.  Sometimes  there  are  changing  letters  and 
different  readings,  or  flash  lights  that  keep  blinking  and 
going  out  in  darkness  like  miniature  lighthouses,  or 
shifting  globes  giving  different  colored  lights. 

All  told,  the  glitter  and  glare  of  these  signs  make  up 


NEW   YORK   BY   NIGHT  213 

a  bewildering  and  (it  may  be  admitted)  a  brilliant  sight. 
Great  throngs  of  people  delight  in  them,  and  perhaps  the 
presence  of  so  many  people  on  the  streets  at  night  is,  in 
measure,  accounted  for  by  the  electric  display.  The 
avenues  and  some  of  the  cross-streets  are  usually  filled 
with  people  who  are  moving  leisurely  along,  stopping 
to  look  in  at  shop  windows,  drawn  in  at  moving-picture 
shows  by  the  glare  of  electricity,  or  grouped  about  some 
place  where  music  is  heard.  All  over  the  better-lighted 
streets  of  the  upper  city  one  finds  these  lines  of  strollers 
out  for  a  walk,  interested  in  meeting  friends,  seeking 
some  sort  of  amusement  or  diversion.  Fourteenth  Street, 
east  and  west,  crowded  with  foreigners,  is  not  different 
from  Forty-Second  Street,  east  and  west,  crowded  with 
young  Americans.  Men  and  women,  old  and  young, 
rich  and  poor,  happy  and  miserable,  —  again,  one  cannot 
help  wondering  who  they  are,  where  they  come  from, 
and  where  they  are  going;  and  the  mild  wonder  if 
there  are  any  but  the  sick,  the  aged,  and  the  ''queer," 
who  remain  at  home  quietly,  spending  an  old-fashioned 
evening  with  books,  or  music,  or  friends. 

Perhaps  the  largest  gatherings  in  the  evening  up  town 
are  about  the  opera-houses,  the  theaters,  the  vaudeville  and 
concert  halls,  the  restaurants,  the  clubs.  From  Thirty- 
Fourth  Street  to  Columbus  Circle  and  beyond  is  just  now 
the  amusement  center;  and  there  the  people,  the  cabs, 
and  the  electric  signs  are  the  thickest.     At  eight  in  the 


214  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

evening  there  is  the  incessant  come  and  go  of  trolleys,  the 
rattle  and  rumble  of  cabs,  the  shuffle  and  push  of  many- 
feet  along  the  street,  the  insistent  voice  of  ticket  specu- 
lators, and  the  unintelligible  shout  of  men  and  boys 
hawking  night  editions  of  newspapers.  The  Gothamite 
usually  pays  no  attention  to  this  moving  roar,  in  fact  he 
does  not  see  it  or  hear  it;  but  the  stranger  is  interested 
in  it  because  perhaps  he  fancies  it  stands  for  the  city's 
gayety.  Usually,  however,  it  means  only  noise,  and  a  dis- 
agreeable kind  at  that.  The  real  interest  begins,  possibly, 
at  the  entrance  to  the  opera  and  the  theater,  when  the 
carriages  draw  up  and  people  step  down  and  out.  They 
make  quite  an  animated  throng  as  they  enter  the  vestibules 
or  crowd  the  staircases,  or  the  foyer,  bowing  and  chatting 
to  each  other,  all  smiling,  all  newly  garbed,  all  on  pleasure 
bent.  The  fflling  up  of  a  theater  with  people,  the  drifting 
in  and  the  taking  of  seats,  the  buzz  of  conversation,  the 
recognition  of  acquaintances,  the  visiting  between  the 
acts,  are  sometimes  more  amusing  to  the  onlookers  than 
the  play  itself. 

Another  interesting  sight,  especially  at  the  opera,  is 
the  row  of  boxes  containing  people  of  more  or  less 
prominence  socially.  When  Society  shops,  it  does  not 
anticipate  an  audience,  though  it  may  be  very  handsomely 
garbed  for  all  that ;  when  it  drives,  its  fine  feathers  may 
be  muffled  by  wraps  or  shut  in  by  the  carriage  cover; 
but  when  it  goes  to  the  opera,  it  does  so  in  full  regalia, 


Pl.  46.  —  Upper  Broadway  —  Night 


NEW   YORK   BY  NIGHT  215 

with  all  its  war  paint  on,  to  be  seen  by  friend  and  foe  alike. 
The  costumes  are  of  the  finest  fabric  and  the  most  artistic 
design,  the  jewels  are  the  rarest  and  the  most  brilliant, 
the  coiffure  (including  the  toque  or  tiara)  the  most  fetching, 
the  fan  the  most  dazzling.  Seated  in  its  boxes  against  a 
background  of  gold  and  red  silk,  Society  looks  very  impos- 
ing, very  magnificent.  And  it  seems  to  be  very  happy,  for 
it  wears  a  beatific  smile  and  sheds  an  extra  beam  of  pleasure 
when  its  members  bend  to  speak  to  each  other.  The 
slightest  contact  produces  the  smile,  though  people  before 
them  have  smiled  and  smiled  and  smiled  and  still  been 
villainously  unhappy.  But  if  any  sorrow  is  behind  the 
mask,  you  do  not  see  it.  They  may  grow  sad-faced  when 
at  home  and  undressing  for  the  night,  but  not  publicly 
will  they  show  a  rueful  countenance. 

After  the  play  or  the  opera  is  over  all  the  exits  are 
hastily  thrown  open.  People  cannot  get  away  fast  enough 
by  the  main  entrances.  They  may  stop  a  moment  to  talk 
to  some  acquaintance,  but  usually  they  lose  patience  with 
anyone  who  holds  up  the  line  of  people  on  the  stairways 
or  in  the  vestibule.  Just  why  or  what  their  haste  they 
scarcely  know.  Most  of  them  are  going  home  and  to  bed, 
and  are  in  no  hurry  about  it  if  they  stopped  to  think ;  but 
possibly  a  third  of  the  audience  is  going  somewhere  to 
supper,  and  it  is  this  minority  that  sets  the  speed  for  the 
others  until  they  are  quite  persuaded  that  they,  too,  are 
in  a  hurry  to  secure  a  table  somewhere.     Everyone  in 


216  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

New  York  is  not  in  such  hot  haste  as  he  appears.  Many 
would,  if  they  could,  move  slowly,  but  they  understand 
they  must  move  at  the  New  York  pace  or  else  be  stepped 
upon.  Thus  it  is  that  the  average  person  gets  out  of  a 
theater  faster  than  he  went  in;  and  after  he  is  alone  on 
the  sidewalk  he  perhaps  stops  to  think  what  he  will  do 
or  where  he  will  go. 

If  he  is  a  lone  bachelor  or  with  men  friends,  perhaps  he 
goes  off  to  the  Players  Club  on  Gramercy  Park,  where  the 
actors  assemble  after  the  play  to  talk,  smoke,  or  have  sup- 
per. If  the  way  Ues  up  Fifth  Avenue,  perhaps  the  theater- 
goer may  turn  into  the  artistic  Century,  the  poHtical  Union 
League,  the  academic  University,  the  social  Union,  or  the 
grandiose  Metropolitan.  They  are  nearly  all  of  them  pre- 
tentious clubs,  nearly  aU  of  large  proportions,  nearly  aU 
furnished  hke  modern  hotels,  —  with  more  extravagance 
than  taste.  The  columns  and  gildings,  the  lounges,  cur- 
tains, and  rugs  that  set  off  the  smoking,  reading,  and 
reception  rooms,  would  be  more  appropriate  perhaps  in 
some  palace  ball-room.  But  there  is  no  denying  their  com- 
fort. They  are  like  the  Pullman  car,  over  which  we  may 
worry  because  of  its  want  of  simpHcity,  but  not  because 
of  the  softness  of  its  seats. 

The  clubs  of  New  York  are  perhaps  the  most  luxurious 
known  anywhere  in  the  modern  world.  That  is  said  to  be 
their  crying  evil.  They  are  too  good  a  substitute  for  a 
home;  and  many  men  adopt  them,  have  the  club  address 


Pl.  47.  —  Plaza  by  Moonlight 


NEW   YORK   BY   NIGHT  217 

put  on  their  visiting  cards,  get  their  mail  there,  live  there. 
The  prominent  ones  with  good  dining-room  accommoda- 
tions are  well  patronized.  That  portion  of  the  community 
afflicted  with  too  much  time  to  kill,  and  perhaps  for  that 
reason  called  the  ^ leisure  class,"  goes  to  its  club  every 
afternoon,  and  usually  ends  up  there  every  evening.  So- 
called  ''club  men"  keep  filing  in  and  out  all  day  long;  and 
not  an  inconsiderable  constituency  takes  breakfast  there 
in  the  morning. 

Aside  from  the  large  clubs  the  city  is  well  supplied  with 
organizations  devoted  to  work,  to  study,  to  music,  to  art, 
to  the  theater.  All  of  them  make  for  society.  The  small 
theater  club  of  ten  or  a  dozen  members  is  existent  upon 
almost  any  city  block.  Ostensibly  it  is  devoted  to  a  study 
of  the  drama.  A  play  is  seen,  and  afterwards  the  party 
adjourns  to  some  restaurant  or  member's  house,  has  its 
theater  supper,  and  perhaps  discusses  the  performance. 
These  are  generally  juvenile  gatherings,  modest  enough 
in  scale  and  possibly  shallow  enough  in  criticism,  but 
enjoyable,  judging  by  the  faces  and  the  laughter.  Young 
people  in  New  York  have  the  same  good  time,  on  slight 
provocation,  that  they  do  elsewhere  in  the  world. 

Swelldom,  with  Boredom  on  its  arm,  of  course  goes  to 
the  theater  with  a  loftier  air,  and  afterward  drops  in  at 
Sherry's  or  Delmonico's  for  supper  with  a  more  sophisti- 
cated and  wearied  repose  of  manner.  The  two  great 
restaurants  are  never  very  empty  in  the  evening,  and  yet 


218  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

both  feel  somewhat  the  influx  of  people  from  the  opera 
and  the  theater  between  eleven  and  twelve.  Suppers  are 
ordered,  people  chat  vivaciously,  the  wind  instruments 
of  the  orchestra  rise  above  the  buzz  of  conversation  and 
the  rattle  of  dishes,  waiters  flit  here  and  there,  guests  move 
from  table  to  table  to  greet  acquaintances,  the  odor  of 
flowers  mingles  with  the  steam  of  cooking,  the  flash  of 
diamonds  and  cut-glass  table-ware  gets  mixed  up  with 
silks,  portieres,  marble  pilasters,  gilded  ceilings,  pink-and- 
yellow  colorings.  Eating  and  drinking,  instead  of  being 
the  satisfaction  of  a  physical  need,  is  here  a  social  function. 
The  drawing  feature  is  not  so  much  the  food  as  the  crowd. 
That  is  why  the  fashionable  restaurants  are  fashionable,  — 
why  they  are  always  crowded  in  spite  of  high  charges. 

The  two  famous  restaurants,  which  somehow  always 
find  their  way  into  print  as  though  they  fed  half  the 
people  of  New  York,  are  only  a  small  part  of  the 
food-supplying  establishments  of  the  city.  The  number 
of  restaurants,  cafes,  lunch  counters  —  places  where  food 
is  cooked  and  served  —  is  something  amazing  to  strangers. 
Some  of  the  side  streets  are  lined  and  dotted  with  eating 
establishments;  all  the  railway  stations,  department 
stores,  sky-scrapers,  apartment-houses,  have  kitchens 
attached  to  them,  and  the  hundreds  of  hotels  often  gather 
more  profit  from  ''transients"  than  from  their  regular 
guests.  Besides  these  there  are  large  hall-like  places  where 
table  d'hote  dinners  are  served,  with  music,  to  miscellaneous 


Pl.  4S.  —  Sherry's  (left)  and  Delmonico's  (right) 


NEW   YORK   BY   NIGHT  219 

parties;  cafes,  French,  German,  Hungarian,  where  what 
is  left  of  Bohemia  hkes  to  assemble  and  drink  foreign  wines  ; 
oyster  and  chop  houses,  where  nomads  drop  in  and  eat  in 
silence ;  dairies  and  confectionery  shops,  where  women  go 
for  lunch  or  afternoon  tea.  There  seems  no  end  to  the 
traffic  in  cooked  things,  nor  to  the  places  where  they  are 
supplied. 

The  stranger  passing  from  restaurant  to  restaurant 
in  up-town  New  York  after  seven  in  the  evening,  would 
be  very  apt  to  conclude  that  most  of  the  city  had  given 
up  house-keeping  and  was  taking  its  meals  "out."  And 
he  would  not  be  far  from  the  mark  in  his  conclusion. 
High  rents  for  houses  and  the  constant  irritation  over 
servants  have  driven  many  thousands  to  seek  sleeping 
quarters  in  flats  and  eating  accommodations  in  hotels  and 
restaurants.  The  social  conditions  in  New  York  are  not 
favorable  to  the  development  of  the  domestic  household. 
Even  some  of  the  very  wealthy  people  in  the  city  have, 
of  recent  years,  preferred  taking  a  suite  of  apartments  at  a 
hotel  to  the  opening  of  their  town  house  for  the  winter 
months. 

After  the  theater,  and  after  the  supper,  when  the  hours 
run  into  the  morning  and  people  begin  to  grow  weary  even 
of  themselves,  they  silently  slip  away,  singly  and  in  pairs, 
by  cab  and  car,  scattering  to  the  far  ends  of  the  city  per- 
haps, disappearing  up  brown-stone  steps,  through  the 
entrances  of  apartment-houses,  or   down  hotel  corridors. 


220  THE  NEW   NEW   YORK 

The  city  roar  dies  down  a  little,  the  Hghts  glitter  far  up 
the  streets  where  only  belated  stragglers  are  seen,  the 
patrolmen  go  along  their  beats,  stopping  occasionally 
to  pull  at  a  door  knob,  or  pass  a  word  with  a  late  diner. 
The  city  sleeps  for  a  few  hours,  —  sleeps  "Uvely"  for  fear 
it  will  be  late  to  business  in  the  morning,  sleeps  like  a  weary 
columbine  at  the  theater  wing,  in  all  its  paint  and  spangles, 
expecting  its  call  to  "go  on"  at  any  moment. 


HOMES   AND   HOUSES 


Pl.  XIII.   -apartment    houses,    upper    BROADWAY 


YAWaA05ia    5f3SqU    ,232U0H    TH3MT51ASA-    .IIIX   .jH 


CHAPTER  XIII 

HOMES  AND   HOUSES 

There  are  plenty  of  stopping-places  in  New  York,  plenty 
of  hotels,  apartments,  rooms  en  suite,  boarding-houses, 
dwelling-houses ;  but  not  a  great  many  homes.  It  takes 
something  more  than  a  quadrangle  of  brick  or  marble  to 
make  a  home.  A  community  of  interest,  a  domestic 
feehng,  even  some  old-fashioned  sentiment,  are  necessary; 
and,  unfortunately,  the  average  New  Yorker  feels  he  can- 
not indulge  in  such  things  freely,  —  at  least,  not  within  the 
city  limits.  It  is  ground  in  upon  him  at  every  turn  that 
the  city  is  a  place  for  business,  not  sentiment.  Wife  and 
children  and  kindred  may  be  with  him,  but  their  being  in 
the  city  is  only  a  temporary  arrangement.  The  roof  over- 
head is  a  camping  place  where  they  rest  for  a  night,  or  a 
month,  or  a  year,  but  not  for  an  indefinite  period.  The 
home  is  off  somewhere  in  the  country  —  up  the  river, 
along  the  Sound,  over  in  New  Jersey  —  rather  than  in  the 
city.  Even  those  who  have  no  place  in  the  country  move 
about  so  often,  from  one  portion  of  the  town  to  another, 
that  they  are  nearly  as  homeless  as  gypsies.  Permanence, 
the  corner-stone  of  the  domestic  establishment,  is  lacking. 

223 


224  THE   NEW    NEW   YORK 

People  when  compelled  to  live  in  the  cramped  quarters 
of  a  shop  where  they  carry  on  a  trade,  soon  adjust  them- 
selves to  the  shop  conditions  by  doing  away  with  all  un- 
necessary impedimenta.  Whether  permanent  or  temporary, 
they  must  put  up  with  inconveniences,  and  get  along  with 
little  friction  and  less  worry.  The  New  Yorker  in  his 
big  shop  feels  very  much  the  same  way,  and  his  wife 
heartily  agrees  with  him.  When  they  are  able  to  have 
that  ideal  place  in  the  country,  they  will  have  their  own 
table,  their  own  rooms,  their  own  porch  and  doorstep; 
they  will  have  horses  and  servants  and  flower-gardens  and 
open  air,  with  the  luxury  of  green  fields  and  the  simple 
life;  but  while  they  occupy  a  series  of  little  cells  in  the 
fifteenth  story  of  a  sky-scraper,  reached  by  an  express 
elevator,  warmed  by  steam,  and  lighted  by  electricity, 
what  is  the  use  of  trying  to  keep  a  cow  or  striving  to  grow 
lilac  bushes  ?  Bottled  milk  left  on  the  doorsill,  and  a 
rubber-plant  that  grows  up  a  chimney  as  readily  as  else- 
where, are  obviously  the  proper  substitutes. 

So  it  is  that  the  citizen  of  Gotham  soon  becomes  an 
economist  of  effort.  He  cuts  away  the  worries  and  bothers. 
He  and  his  wife  dodge  the  servant  question  at  the  start  by 
taking  an  apartment  instead  of  a  whole  house,  and  getting 
their  food  downstairs  in  the  restaurant  instead  of  prepar- 
ing it  themselves.  A  maid  looks  after  the  sweeping  and 
cleaning  of  the  place,  messenger  boys  and  the  telephone 
do  the  errands,  and  the  janitor  fights  off  agents,  gas  men, 


i«j  t7?^''  ' 


A<^  '"if© 


Pl.  49.  —  Beginning  of  Madison  Avenue 


HOMES   AND   HOUSES  225 

and  beggars.  The  place  may  not  be  large,  but  it  is  usually- 
well  supplied  with  conveniences  and  labor-saving  devices. 
One  does  not  have  to  think  about  light  or  fuel  or  ice 
or  ashes.  Steam  and  gas,  with  refrigerating  currents,  are 
turned  on  by  valves.  Then,  too,  the  apartment  is  fire- 
proof and  generally  burglar-proof.  The  whole  family  can 
go  away  for  a  day  or  for  a  year ;  the  premises  are  guarded 
and  no  one  has  to  worry  about  them.  The  burden  of 
house-keeping  is  lifted  at  once,  and  the  family  becomes  a 
boarder  with  the  privacy  of  its  own  floor. 

Of  course  there  are  compensatory  losses.  The  rooms 
are  small,  often  ill-lighted,  and  there  are  seldom  enough 
of  them  to  warrant  family  visiting.  Even  in  the  larger 
flats,  where  house-keeping  is  carried  on  with  many  servants, 
entertainment  is  never  quite  satisfactory.  Then  one 
misses  his  own  doorstep,  misses  the  family  dog  and  cat, 
and,  worst  of  all,  the  children  miss  their  playground.  The 
apartment  is  only  a  makeshift,  and  not  a  good  substitute 
for  a  home,  but  it  is  the  best  the  harried  New  Yorker  can 
get.  He  does  not  want  to  travel  morning  and  evening  on 
the  suburban  trains,  and  his  wife  wishes  to  see  something 
of  city  life,  so  the  apartment-house  yawns  for  him  as  in- 
evitably as  the  East  Side  tenement-house  for  the  penniless 
immigrant  from  Europe. 

Money  ameliorates  the  condition  of  the  flat-dweller 
somewhat.  There  are  apartments  quite  as  commodious 
as  houses,  in  which  luxury  sits  enthroned  and  convenience 

Q 


226  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

waits  at  every  door  jamb;  and  there  are  suites  in  hotels 
with  private  dining  rooms  and  special  servants  that  are 
designed  and  fitted  up  for  aristocracy,  or  plutocracy,  or 
anyone  who  cares  to  pay  for  them.  The  furnishing  is 
most  sumptuous,  the  service  most  elaborate,  the  facilities 
for  easy  living  quite  perfect;  and  yet  somehow  the  in- 
habitants never  quite  rid  themselves  of  the  idea  that  they 
are  tenants  in  common  with  others  in  a  huge  caravansary, 
and  not  in  their  own  house.  The  same  idea  is  borne  in 
upon  the  poorer  famihes  living  in  Lexington  Avenue 
boarding-houses,  and  comes  to  the  nest  of  Italians  curled 
up  on  the  floor  of  a  Mott  Street  tenement,  but  perhaps  it 
frets  them  less.  All  of  them  are  conscious  of  being  in 
temporary  possession  only,  occupying  something  that  does 
not  belong  to  them.  It  may  be  a  simple  bare  room  or  an 
elaborate  suite  of  rooms,  but  it  is  not  home. 

Dwelling-houses  would  seem  to  be  very  different,  but 
in  reality  they  still  leave  much  to  be  desired.  Time  was, 
thirty  or  more  years  ago,  when  a  brick  house  on  Washing- 
ton Square,  a  brown-stone  front  on  Fifth  or  Madison  Ave- 
nue or  on  a  side  street,  meant  home  in  a  broad  sense  of 
the  word;  but  New  York  was  a  small  city  then.  Times 
have  greatly  changed.  The  brown-stones  on  the  avenues 
have  been  metamorphosed  into  stores  or  been  replaced 
by  tall  buildings ;  the  houses  on  the  side  streets  have  been 
overhauled  and  remodeled ;  a  number  of  brick  houses  still 
linger  in  Washington  Square,  but  fashion  no  longer  cares 


HOMES    AND   HOUSES  227 

to  live  there.  The  new  residences  that  have  come  into 
existence  on  the  side  streets,  along  the  Riverside  Drive, 
along  upper  Fifth  Avenue,  are  great  improvements  upon 
the  old,  but  it  is  doubtful  if  they  are  so  homelike  as  the 
old.  They  are  infinitely  more  convenient,  wonderfully 
more  ornate,  several  times  more  expensive,  but  they  are 
also  less  inhabited,  less  of  a  loadstone  to  the  family,  less 
permanent. 

These  new  styles  of  domestic  architecture  are  many 
and  heterogeneous.  Some  of  them  are  of  Beaux-Arts 
origin,  some  are  Colonial,  some  have  New  Art  features, 
and  some  have  no  art  whatever,  but  are  simply  buildings. 
They  are  more  often  made  up  of  the  pickings  and  stealings 
of  many  styles  —  attempts  at  the  English  town  house, 
the  French  chateau,  the  ItaHan  palace,  with  miscellaneous 
features  lugged  in  from  many  quarters.  But  with  all 
their  sins  of  combination  and  over-ornamentation,  they 
are,  on  the  whole,  successful  in  construction.  Especially 
is  this  true  of  the  houses  on  the  side  streets,  built  of  brick 
with  stone  or  marble  trimmings,  or  of  gray  stone  with 
balconies,  square  windows,  and  iron  raihngs.  They  are 
unpretentious,  substantial,  livable.  The  gloom  of  the 
old  brown-stone  residence,  lighted  fore  and  aft  only,  has 
been  dispelled  by  larger  openings  and  by  broad  skylights, 
with  the  consequent  results  of  more  air  and  better  hy- 
giene. The  high  Dutch  stoop,  which  was  never  other 
than  an  architectural  abomination,  is  no  longer  employed. 


228  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

The  new  houses  have  entrances  on  the  curb  Hne,  and 
those  that  are  merely  remodeled  have  the  stoop-rise  on 
the  inside  in  a  short  run  of  broad  steps  to  the  first  floor. 
The  grilles  and  vestibules  are  usually  massive  and  simple, 
and  the  furnishing  of  the  halls  rather  meager.  Marble 
walls  and  flooring,  with  a  table,  a  chair,  and  a  rug,  are 
usually  considered  sufficient. 

But  the  drawing-room  on  the  first  floor  more  than  atones 
for  any  austerity  at  the  entrance.  It  is  usually  a  wonder 
both  in  the  quality  and  the  quantity  of  the  things  it  holds. 
Many  of  them  resemble  nothing  so  much  as  antique  shops, 
and  seem  to  require  only  the  presence  of  a  red  flag  and  an 
auctioneer  to  begin  a  sale.  The  fad  for  things  old  has 
reigned  in  New  York  for  years,  and  is  still  on  the  throne. 
The  fact  that  many  of  the  ''antiques"  bought  in  these 
days  are  bare-faced  forgeries,  or  at  best  merely  copies, 
does  not  seem  to  give  anyone  caution.  People  keep  on 
buying  them,  keep  on  ''furnishing"  with  them,  until  the 
drawing-room  becomes  unbearable,  almost  unthinkable. 
Tables  and  lounges  with  gilded  legs,  and  old  velvets  for 
coverings,  vie  with  tapestries  and  portieres.  Pictures 
on  the  walls  share  the  decorative  scheme  with  stained- 
glass  windows,  gilded  wood-carvings,  pieces  of  old  sculp- 
ture, door  jambs  from  Italian  palaces,  and  mantels  from 
French  chateaux.  Louis  Seize  cabinets  back  up  against 
the  walls  and  hold  Chinese  porcelains,  silver,  glass,  minia- 
tures;   musical  instruments  of  quaint  designs  are  flung 


HOMES   AND   HOUSES  229 

down  here  and  there  with  careful  neglect;  and  scraps  of 
old  embroidery  or  Oriental  frippery  are  tacked  on  chairs 
or  carved  benches. 

It  is  all  very  costly,  and  some  of  it  very  beautiful ;  but 
one  sadly  wonders  why  it  should  litter  up  a  place  where 
people  live.  Can  anyone  be  happy  amid  such  a  restless 
conglomeration  of  plunder,  representing  all  ages  and  all 
countries,  save  our  own?  It  may  appear  artistic,  even 
learned  or  romantic,  to  be  continually  associated  with 
archaeological  remains ;  to  be  playing  on  Beethoven's  piano, 
or  eating  from  Napoleon's  plates,  or  reading  by  the  lamp 
of  some  buried  Csesar ;  but  it  certainly  is  not  comfortable, 
nor  is  it  very  sensible.  It  is  too  much  of  a  strain  at  hap- 
piness; and  that,  too,  without  a  breath  of  originality. 
The  decorators  around  the  corner  will  make  the  whole 
hodge-podge  for  you  while  you  are  away  on  a  summer 
vacation.  When  you  return  in  the  autumn,  you  may  walk 
in,  take  possession,  and  find  a  place  to  sit  down,  if  you 
can.  Of  course,  you  can  exist  in  such  a  bric-a-brac  shop, 
and  your  wife's  friends  may  come  in  to  tea  and  admire  it 
greatly,  but  there  is  nothing  very  homelike  about  it. 

The  ''front  parlor"  in  America  never  yet  proved  a  joy 
to  the  family.  In  the  early  days  of  horse-hair  cloth,  old 
mahogany,  and  English  carpets  it  was  a  place  of  gloom,  — 
a  closed-and-light-barred  room,  save  when  ''company" 
came.  Later  on,  in  the  era  of  black  walnut,  it  became 
more   ornate  with   Itahan  frescoes  on  the  ceiling,  velvet 


230  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

carpets,  red  satin  curtains,  pier  glasses  set  in  carved  or 
gilded  frames,  the  inevitable  black  piano,  and  to  balance 
it  a  piece  of  white  tombstone  sculpture,  representing 
''Faith"  or  ''Hope"  —  something  well  calculated  to  dis- 
pel both  virtues  from  one's  mind  and  heart. 

But  flat  and  tasteless  as  this  latter  style  was,  it  was 
hardly  more  wearisome  than  the  present  one.  You  could 
ignore  the  "parlor,"  dodge  it,  go  around  it;  but  the  draw- 
ing-room of  to-day  fixes  you  with  its  ghtter,  insists  upon 
being  seen.  It  is  a  museum.  Fine  as  its  contents  may 
be  (and  many  of  the  individual  things  are  superb),  their 
bringing  together,  their  unrelated  and  discordant  huddling 
in  an  inappropriate  living  room,  in  an  unsympathetic 
household,  in  an  absolutely  foreign  land,  is  a  barbarity,  — 
an  imitated  barbarity  at  that.  When  the  ancients  plun- 
dered from  others,  it  was  generally  to  fill  a  gap,  to  supply 
porphyry  or  marble  or  bronze  where  they  had  none  of  their 
own ;  but  there  is  no  such  excuse  for  the  Americans,  We 
have  abundant  native  materials  at  our  feet,  but  we  either 
discard  them  because  they  are  familiar,  as  stupid  people 
ignore  field  flowers,  or  we  despise  them  because  they  are 
not  old. 

The  Hbrary  —  I  am  still  speaking  of  the  interior  of  the 
fashionable  house  —  is  several  degrees  better  than  the 
drawing-room,  in  that  it  has  fewer  things  in  it.  The  books 
are  usually  superb  in  every  way  —  nice  editions,  nice  bind- 
ings, nicely  placed  on  the  shelves,  nicely  glassed,  —  but 


HOMES   AND   HOUSES  231 

seldom  read.  The  chairs  are  large  and  comfortable,  the 
tables  neatly  layered  with  the  latest  magazines,  the  walls 
covered  with  engravings  or  pictures.  Of  course,  there  are 
Oriental  rugs,  Pompeian  bronzes,  and  Greek  vases  scattered 
about,  just  to  encourage  a  classic  spirit.  It  makes  a  good 
room  to  show  off  to  one's  new  friends  while  smoking  after 
dinner.  It  intimates  a  taste  on  the  part  of  its  possessor 
for  loftier  things  than  are  furnished  by  the  world,  the  flesh, 
and  ''the  Street."  But,  unfortunately,  it  pretends  to 
more  than  it  fulfills. 

Possibly  the  dining  room  is  the  most  useful  room  in 
the  whole  house,  aside  from  the  kitchen.  It  is  usually 
commodious,  convenient,  and  appropriate.  Dinners  oc- 
casionally are  given  for  ten  or  maybe  twenty  guests,  and 
night  after  night  there  are  perhaps  two  or  three  intimate 
friends  at  the  table.  Spindle-legged  furniture  of  great 
age  and  decrepitude  would  not  answer  for  constant  use. 
The  chairs  and  tables  are,  therefore,  of  substantial  mate- 
rials, often  of  beautiful  dark  woods,  rubbed  smooth  and 
left  unadorned  by  carving  or  gilding  of  any  sort.  The 
linen  and  china  are  of  corresponding  excellence;  but  the 
glass  is  often  too  fine  or  too  much  cut,  and  the  silver  is 
usually  over-ornamented.  All  told,  however,  the  dining 
room  with  its  paneling  and  portraits,  its  sideboards  and 
china  cabinets,  is  a  good  room.  At  times  it  looks  a  little 
like  the  private  dining  room  of  some  fashionable  hotel; 
but  it  is  at  least  serviceable. 


232  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

Upstairs  in  the  dressing-rooms  and  bedrooms  there  is 
not  so  much  display  of  antiquities,  but  a  beautiful  Utter 
of  things  modern,  with  perhaps  more  pieces  in  one  room 
than  would  comfortably  furnish  two.  The  keynote  of 
quantity  is  struck  by  the  dressing-table  of  the  young  lady 
of  the  house.  It  is  usually  strewn  with  enough  super- 
fluities in  silver  —  brushes,  trays,  bottles,  picture-frames, 
button-hooks,  scissors,  knives,  paper-weights,  thermome- 
ters —  to  start  a  small  shop  on  a  side  street.  The  unhappy 
phase  of  it  is  that,  while  the  quantity  is  so  enormous, 
scarcely  a  piece  of  it  is  good  in  quaUty.  A  self-respecting 
gas  man  would  hardly  accept  it  as  chandelier  ornament. 
That  it  bears  the  names  of  great  Fifth  Avenue  silversmiths 
is  only  so  much  the  worse  for  the  taste  of  the  silversmiths. 
For  the  rest  of  the  room  there  may  be  quantities  of  small 
pictures,  many  hangings  and  curtainings,  many  furbelows, 
and  much  lace  work.  These,  with  simple  enough  beds, 
chairs,  and  floor  rugs  against  a  background  of  large-pat- 
terned wall-paper  or  silk  paneling,  make  up  what  is  called 
the  "color  scheme"  of  the  room. 

From  top  to  bottom  this  fashionable  New  York  house  has 
what  are  called  ''the  comforts  of  home,"  but  not  the  home- 
like feehng.  There  is  the  reach  for  happiness  —  the  at- 
tempt to  gain  it  by  and  through  possessions.  Almost 
everything  that  the  heart  could  wish  for  is  there  —  books, 
pictures,  bric-a-brac,  hangings,  furniture,  the  very  ghtter 
and  the  gleam  of   gold;  —  but  the  tyranny  of   things  is 


m\  -""^ 


>^      "UK  T^ 


'"■*iil|,: 


^ 


•«<. 

.-■I^-. 


I    Ij^^i* 


Vl.    ol.         i'llTll    AVKMK    lIuU.SES 


HOMES   AND   HOUSES  233 

there  also.  Happiness  cannot  be  gotten  out  of  possessions, 
nor  homes  bought  with  houses;  and,  sooner  or  later,  the 
splendid  town  house  becomes  merely  a  gilded  cage.  Per- 
haps that  is  why  so  many  of  them  are  closed,  boarded  up, 
deserted,  with  the  family  out  in  the  country  or  hving 
around  the  corner  in  some  fashionable  hotel. 

But  this  story  belongs  with  the  domestic  skeleton,  and 
is  not  brought  out  at  the  dinner-table.  On  the  surface, 
everything  is  most  alluring,  most  engaging;  in  conse- 
quence of  which,  perhaps,  the  influence  of  the  fashion- 
ables is  much  wider  than  their  numbers  would  warrant. 
For  in  a  small  way  the  poorer  people  —  the  clerks, 
shop-keepers,  agents,  and  little  place-holders  —  try  to 
follow  the  rich,  and  in  doing  so  they  manage  to  over- 
furnish  and  bedizen  their  small  quarters  with  atrocious 
bric-a-brac,  plush-framed  plaques,  bad  etchings,  and 
ugly  ''art  squares."  Their  table  furniture  and  bedroom 
decorations  are  usually  on  the  same  plane  of  cheapness 
and  worthlessness.  The  whole  result  is  banal  in  the  ex- 
treme. In  it  the  home  is  perhaps  no  more  apparent  than 
in  the  houses  of  the  rich. 

Of  course,  the  very  poor  of  the  East  and  West  Sides, 
living  in  tenements  or  small  houses,  do  not  bother  them- 
selves with  much  furnishing  of  any  kind.  They  buy  what 
is  necessary  —  generally  inexpensive  and  badly  made 
articles  —  and  live  from  hand  to  mouth,  from  day  to 
day,  as  best  they  can,  quite  regardless  of  art  or  fashion. 


234  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

In  this  respect  they  are  not  strikingly  different  from  the 
poor  of  London  or  Berhn  or  Vienna.  The  places  where 
they  live  can  hardly  be  called  homes;  they  are  merely 
haunts,  districts  where  their  fellows  gather,  habitations 
that  are  accessible  or  possible  to  them.  Neither  the  very 
rich  nor  the  very  poor  have  homes  in  New  York. 

But  every  city  or  community  is  saved  by  its  conserva- 
tive element,  and  New  York  is  not  an  exception.  The 
quiet  and  unpretentious  who  are  engaged  in  hundreds  of 
professions  and  business  enterprises,  who  domestically 
lead  the  simple  life  in  modest  houses  and  are  not  swayed 
by  fashions  or  fads  of  any  kind,  must  always  be  reckoned 
with.  They  are  not  usually  remarked,  because  there  is 
nothing  very  remarkable  about  either  their  lives  or  their 
habitations,  except  that  in  both  there  is  the  note  of  sanity. 
Thousands  of  such  people  and  such  places  are  to  be  found 
in  New  York  — •  places  where  the  furnishings  are  plain, 
comfortable,  unobtrusive,  and  the  family  rather  than  the 
"antiques"  lend  the  interest;  where  the  functions  and  the 
guests  are  unannounced  in  the  newspapers ;  where  society 
in  its  best  sense  is  to  be  found,  and  fashion  in  its  worst 
sense  rarely  intrudes. 

It  is  in  such  houses  that  one  finds  the  nearest  approach 
to  homes  that  a  great  city  is  capable  of  maintaining.  And 
yet  even  here  the  home  feeling  is,  and  must  be  from  neces- 
sity, rather  slight.  The  tenure  of  the  house  is  too  uncer- 
tain.    The  changes  in  the  city,  the  continual  encroachments 


Pl.  52.  —  The  Ansonia 


HOMES    AND   HOUSES  235 

of  the  business  section  upon  the  residence  section,  the 
opening  of  new  streets,  the  loss  of  fortunes,  taxes,  sudden 
deaths,  all  bring  about  forced  sales.  Twenty  years  is  now 
a  long  time  for  a  family  to  occupy  the  same  premises. 
The  average  is  less.  Under  such  circumstances  there  can 
be  no  permanence  —  no  feeling  that  what  is  builded  up 
will  not  soon  be  pulled  down  —  and,  consequently,  there 
is  no  faith  in  the  stability  of  the  home.  That  is  perhaps 
generally  true  of  all  large  cities,  but  it  is  peculiarly  true 
of  New  York  in  its  chronic  state  of  rebuilding.  Few  there 
are  who  can  stand  still  or  find  a  permanent  anchorage  in  it. 
So  it  is  that  within  the  quietest  of  domestic  circles 
there  is  more  or  less  of  uneasiness.  The  restlessness 
percolates  brick  and  stone  up  town,  as  well  as  steel  and 
cement  down  town.  People  keep  pacing  up  and  down, 
mentally,  if  not  physically;  and  the  nervous  energy  of 
business  New  York,  though  it  may  be  subdued,  kept 
in  abeyance,  is  nevertheless  present  at  the  dinner-table 
of  social  New  York.  It  is  in  the  air,  in  the  brain,  in  the 
blood.  No  one  is  quite  free  from  it,  save  those  who  are 
beyond  influences  of  any  kind. 


THE   BOWEKY 


Pl.  XIV.    -CHINATOWN 


MWOTAHIHO  — .VIX  .jS 


CHAPTER  XIV 

THE    BOWERY 

Everyone  knows  that  New  York  is  now  a  collection 
of  cities,  and  not  merely  an  aggregation  of  sky-scrapers  on 
the  island  of  Manhattan.  Some  years  ago  the  parent  city 
expanded  legally,  took  in  its  neighbors  and  its  suburbs, 
and  called  itself  Greater  New  York.  The  places  that 
were  caught  in  the  net  were  Brooklyn,  Long  Island  City, 
Staten  Island,  Coney  Island,  and  a  baker's  dozen  of 
villages.  The  area  of  the  consolidated  city  is  something 
quite  startling;  but  as  yet  the  consolidation  is  more  on 
the  map  than  in  the  mind  of  the  average  citizen.  The 
insular  in  thought  —  and  they  are  still  a  majority  — 
keep  harking  back  to  the  compact  squares  lying  between 
the  Battery  and  the  Harlem,  keep  thinking  of  that  as  New 
York,  with  Brooklyn  and  beyond,  as  formerly,  a  part  of 
the  suburbs. 

The  Manhattan  part  of  the  city  is,  again,  a  collection 
of  towns,  if  we  divide  by  settlements  and  races.  Every 
New  Yorker  is  more  or  less  familiar  with  such  localities  as 
Chinatown,  Little  Italy,  Little  Hungary;  with  such 
quarters  as  the  French,  the  Scandinavians,  or  the  Syrians 

239 


240  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

occupy;  or  with  the  ghettos  that  seem  to  spring  up  and 
multiply  everywhere  throughout  the  poorer  portions  of 
the  city.  Whenever  a  nationality  gathers  in  a  certain 
place,  a  reputation  and  a  name  attach,  neither  of  them 
perhaps  very  savory.  Unfortunately  the  foreign  elements 
that  come  to  the  city  in  such  numbers  belong  to  the  impe- 
cunious strata  of  humanity,  and  from  necessity  seek  lodg- 
ings each  with  its  own  kind.  When  once  located  in  their 
particular  district,  race  and  language  continue  to  hold 
them  there.  Naturally  these  birds  of  a  feather  give  a 
distinct  character  to  their  section  of  the  city  —  a  char- 
acter that  writers  and  painters  are  continually  seeking 
to  exploit  under  the  name  of  ''local  color." 

But  there  is  a  broader  ethnological  division  of  Man- 
hattan that  may  be  made,  and  perhaps  a  more  inclusive 
one.  The  backbone  of  the  island  running  north  and  south 
is  along  Broadway,  up  Fifth  Avenue,  through  the  Central 
Park.  This  is  the  elevated  portion  of  the  island,  where  the 
cleanly,  comfortable,  well-to-do  New  Yorkers  live  —  this 
is  Upper  New  York.  On  both  sides  of  this  central  ridge, 
sloping  away  toward  the  rivers,  are  depressed  districts 
where  people  of  an  entirely  different  kind  are  brought 
together.  These  are  the  East  and  the  West  Sides  where 
the  tenement-houses  spread  over  many  blocks,  where  the 
foreign  elements  congregate,  where  the  vicious  and  the 
unfortunate,  the  honest  and  the  dishonest,  the  decent  and 
the  indecent,  the  law-abiding  and  the  criminal,  are  all 


Pl.  53.  —  The  ]5o\veky 


THE   BOWERY  241 

brought  together  by  the  gravity  of  circumstance  —  this  is 
Nether  New  York/ 

The  division  line  between  the  Upper  and  the  Nether 
city  is  rather  sharply  drawn.  A  step  down  from  the  ridge, 
a  block  or  so  away  from  Broadway,  and  you  are  in  what 
used  to  be  called  ''the  slums."  Here  is  the  violent  con- 
trast once  more,  a  contrast  not  merely  between  fine 
business  blocks  and  ramshackle  tenements,  or  between 
the  well-to-do  and  the  poverty-stricken;  but  between  a 
house  and  a  haunt,  between  cleanliness  and  dirt,  between 
healthful  quarters  and  the  disease-breeding  sweat-shops. 
The  distinction  is  so  positive,  the  difference  so  wide,  that 
it  can  hardly  be  exaggerated.  The  opposite  poles  of 
humanity  are  likewise  represented.  The  gap  between  the 
highest  intelligence  and  social  rank  and  the  lowest  animal 
existence  seems  reduced  to  a  matter  of  a  few  streets. 
Over  the  edge  of  what  the  cosmopolitan  enthusiast 
regards  as  little  less  than  heaven,  comes  up  the  reek  and 
the  roar  of  that  other  place  which  the  settlement  workers 
regard  as  little  better  than  a  place  of  torment. 

However,  it  is  safe  to  say  that  many  of  the  dwellers 
on  the  East  Side  do  not  consider  their  quarters  so  infernal 
as  the  Upper  New  Yorkers  think  them.  They  are  not  in 
continuous  torment,  otherwise  they  would  not  stay  there. 
True  enough,  they  have  not  the  comforts  that  go  with  life 

•  Mrs.  Schuyler  Van  Rensselaer  first  made  this  distinction.  See  The 
Century  Magazine,  Vol.  27,  p.  546. 


242  THE    NEW   NEW  YORK 

on  Fifth  Avenue,  but  then  people  do  not  miss  what  they 
know  nothing  about.  Besides,  they  have  a  Fifth  Avenue 
of  their  own  in  which  they  are,  perhaps,  just  as  happy. 

The  Fifth  Avenue  of  the  East  Side  is  the  Bowery. 
Everyone  knows  the  Bowery,  because  for  years  the  maga- 
zine writers  and  illustrators  have  been  making  copy  out  of 
it.  It  has  been  regarded  by  some  as  the  freak  street  of 
the  town, — the  place  where  one  goes  to  laugh  at  the  absurd 
and  the  queer,  or  to  get  sociological  statistics  in  exagger- 
ated form.  Society  used  to  go  there,  and  to  its  tributary 
streets,  some  years  ago  on  slumming  expeditions.  It 
does  so  still,  and  comes  back  to  its  up-town  home  better 
satisfied,  perhaps,  with  its  own  quarters.  Settlement 
workers  and  Charity  Organization  people  go  there,  too; 
and  some  of  them  stay  there  to  help  better  the  social 
conditions.  Besides  these  there  are  scores  of  the  morbidly 
curious  who  visit  the  street  seeking  they  know  not  what, 
and  gaining  only  a  dismal  impression.  All  told,  there  are 
many  different  impressions  brought  up  from  the  Bowery 
and  its  runways  by  different  people. 

Perhaps  the  most  prevalent  feeling  among  the  visitors 
is  pity  for  those  who  move  along  the  wide  thoroughfare  — 
pity  that  they  are  so  circumstanced,  that  they  can  know 
no  better  or  higher  life.  Yet  it  is  an  open  question 
if  those  who  Hve  on  the  Bowery  or  its  tributaries,  are 
really  to  be  pitied,  are  really  so  badly  off.  They  do 
not  look  so  very  doleful  as  one  meets  them  on  the  street. 


THE   BOWERY  243 

Beyond  a  doubt  there  are  misery  and  misfortune,  crime 
and  vagrancy,  through  the  haunts  of  the  East  Side ;  but 
they  are  not  very  apparent  on  the  Bowery.  Still  the  street 
is  not  so  wildly  gay  nor  its  habitues  so  violently  lively  as 
they  have  been  painted.  There  are  gray  faces  there,  faces 
that  look  lost  or  homeless  or  out-of-work.  It  is  the 
thoroughfare  of  many  thoughtlessly  mirthful  or  genuinely 
happy  working  people,  but  it  is  also  the  beat  of  the  weary, 
the  friendless,  the  outcast,  the  dissipated,  the  submerged. 
All  classes  are  there  —  tradespeople,  clerks,  mechanics, 
truckmen,  longshoremen,  sailors,  janitors,  politicians, 
peddlers,  pawnbrokers,  old-clothes  men,  with  shop-girls, 
sewing-women,  piece  workers,  concert-hall  singers,  chorus 
girls.  And  all  nationalities.  It  is  one  of  the  most  cos- 
mopolitan streets  in  New  York.  The  Italians  come  into 
it  from  Elizabeth  Street,  the  Chinese  from  Pell  and  Doyers 
streets,  the  Germans  from  beyond  Houston  Street,  the 
Hungarians  from  Second  Avenue,  and  the  Jews  from 
almost  everywhere.  Every  street  coming  up  from  the 
East  River  may  bring  in  a  separate  tale.  Taken  with  a 
liberal  sprinkhng  of  Russians,  Poles,  Rumanians,  Ar- 
menians, Irish,  and  native  Americans  from  the  west, 
north,  and  south,  they  make  a  much  mixed  assemblage. 
But  there  is  no  great  variety  of  hue  in  it.  The  prevailing 
dress  is  rather  somber,  as  well  as  frayed  or  shiny  with 
wear.  Occasionally  a  butterfly  from  the  theater  sails 
by ;   but  the  Bowery  is  not  Fifth  Avenue,  nor  even  Mott 


244  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

Street,  in  color-gayety.  Sometimes  one  is  disposed  to 
think  it  a   sad  street. 

What  brings  these  people  to  the  Bowery  ?  Why,  the 
same  thing  that  draws  the  crowd  in  Upper  New  York  to 
Fifth  Avenue  or  Twenty-Third  Street  or  Broadway.  They 
are  out  shopping,  or  strolling,  or  gossiping,  or  meeting 
acquaintances,  or  bent  on  business.  Why  not  ?  Human- 
ity is  very  much  the  same  in  all  circles  and  classes.  The 
East  Side  does  not  live  out  of  a  pushcart  exclusively. 
Occasionally  it  wants  a  better  quality  of  food  or  clothing. 
Then  it  goes  up  to  the  Bowery  and  comes  face  to  face  with 
the  cheap  store.  There  it  usually  gets  swindled,  for  the 
poor  quality  of  the  goods  makes  them  dear  at  any  price ; 
but  then  they  are  '4n  style."  And  be  it  remembered  that 
the  style  of  the  Bowery  is  just  as  invincible  and  om- 
nipotent to  the  East  Sider  as  that  of  Fifth  Avenue  to 
the  Upper  New  Yorker.  In  fashion,  as  in  life,  there  is 
nothing  good  or  bad  but  thinking  makes  it  so.  As  for 
the  cost,  it  is  the  plain  penalty  of  the  thinking,  wherever 
you  go  or  buy. 

But  the  Bowery  is  a  great  shopping  street,  nevertheless. 
Almost  everything  is  purchasable  there.  Old-clothes 
men,  with  pushcarts  in  the  gutter,  sell  boots,  stockings, 
shirts,  hats ;  peddlers  trail  along  the  curb  hung  deep  with 
shoestrings  and  suspenders,  or  carrying  trays  of  collar 
buttons  and  neckties;  banana  howlers  and  stale-straw- 
berry  venders   address  the  second-story  windows  with 


THE   BOWERY  245 

yells;  the  sidewalk  showcase,  presenting  women's 
garments,  toilet  articles,  knick-knacks,  and  cheap  orna- 
ments, has  its  attendant  ''puller-in"  who  will  sell  you 
everything  in  the  case  ''at  a  bargain";  and  the  cheap 
stores  are  bulging  with  polite  managers  who  meet  one  at 
the  door  and  leave  no  word  unsaid  that  will  induce  an 
exchange  of  goods  for  money. 

The  store  on  the  Bowery  is  unique  in  both  its  quantity 
and  quality.  There  always  seems  to  be  an  overstock  of 
shirts,  shoes,  and  trousers.  Presumably  the  clothing 
that  has  been  rejected  from  the  Upper  city  because  of 
waning  styles,  eventually  finds  its  way  to  the  Bowery, 
and  is  sold  for  what  it  will  bring.  How  otherwise  can  one 
account  for  neckties  at  five  cents  and  shirts  at  twenty 
cents,  or  trousers  and  shoes  from  seventy-five  cents  up? 
Everything  is  ''marked  down."  The  jewelry  shops  offer 
things  at  prices  that  compel  attention.  The  seaman 
ashore  or  the  countryman  at  sea  cannot  resist  the  allure- 
ment ;  besides,  the  "puller-in  "usually  warrants  everything 
for  an  indefinite  number  of  years.  His  next-door  neighbor, 
the  pawnbroker,  —  there  are  half  a  dozen  on  almost  every 
block, — is  also  a  perfectly  reliable  gentleman  who  pro- 
motes trade  wholly  to  his  own  effacement  and  merely 
as  a  friend  of  the  wandering  stranger.  Perhaps  there  is  a 
shade  more  of  affability  about  his  take  than  his  give; 
but  then,  of  course,  he  has  to  live,  poor  soul. 

The  pawnshops  and  the   second-hand   establishments 


246  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

come  as  near  to  the  department  store  as  anything  the 
Bowery  can  offer.  Ahnost  anything  can  be  had  in  them, 
from  revolvers  and  musical  instruments  to  furniture, 
crockery,  and  hardware.  The  articles  have  a  battered 
look,  but  the  average  East  Sider  has  gotten  used  to  such 
appearances,  having  been  hustled  and  elbowed  himself 
most  of  his  life.  Yet  he  and  his  wife  sometimes  buy 
shrewdly  enough  and  beat  down  the  price  to  the  last  sylla- 
ble of  allotted  patience.  Money  does  not  always  come 
and  go  here  with  a  Fifth  Avenue  freedom.  Eventually 
it  passes,  but  perhaps  grudgingly,  reluctantly.  In  the 
day's  work  quite  a  volume  of  business  is  done.  It  is  not 
that  of  Broadway  or  Twenty-Third  Street.  There  are 
no  huge  stores  with  their  enormous  sales;  but  for  all 
that  there  is  in  the  aggregate  a  good  deal  of  buying  and 
selling  on  the  Bowery. 

And,  too,  there  is  the  same  restless  push  and  rush  here 
as  elsewhere  in  the  city.  The  restaurants  on  the  Bowery 
are  striking  epitomes  of  the  New  York  rush.  ''Quick 
Lunch"  is  advertised  almost  everywhere,  and  carried 
out  strictly  according  to  programme.  Your  order  is  not 
infrequently  yelled  across  the  dining  room,  or  roared  down 
a  dumb-waiter ;  and  when  it  comes  in,  it  is  skidded  off  a 
tray  and  on  to  the  table  without  preface  or  apology. 
Usually  it  is  not  a  bad  lunch.  The  prices  asked  make  the 
squeamish  visitor  entertain  notions  of  stale  vegetables, 
''chuck"  steaks,  and  over-ripe  fruits;    but  the  regular 


Pl.  54.  —  Elevated  Road  ox  the  Bowery 


THE   BOWERY  247 

habitue  of  the  Bowery  has  no  qualms  about  them.  He 
eats  and  comes  to  no  harm  thereby.  And  he  drinks 
Hungarian  or  ItaHan  wines,  or  lager  beer,  and  apparently 
comes  to  no  great  harm  by  them  either.  The  cafes 
peculiar  to  the  different  nationalities  are  more  centrally 
located  in  their  various  districts;  but  the  Bowery  is 
cosmopolitan  enough  to  have  all  things  for  all  men,  from 
chop  suey  to  goulash,  and  from  stale  beer  to  fine  grades  of 
Voslauer  Goldeck. 

And  what  amusement  the  Bowery  furnishes  to  its 
easily  amused  people !  The  different  races,  the  street 
types  such  as  the  pushcart  man,  the  hawker,  the  puller- 
in,  the  gay  girl,  the  flashy  young  man,  the  sailors  in  twos 
and  threes,  and  the  countryman  in  ones,  are  all  amusement 
to  the  crowd.  When  it  tires  of  these,  it  gathers  in  front  of 
a  dog-and-bird  store,  and  watches  with  infinite  zest  puppies 
in  the  window  quarreling  about  a  bone,  or  guinea  pigs 
milling  about  in  a  little  pen,  or  canary  birds,  singing  them- 
selves sore  in  the  throat,  in  a  dirty  little  wooden  cage. 
Anywhere  along  the  Bowery  there  are  superior  induce- 
ments offered  to  see  all  the  splendors  of  the  world  in  a 
peep  show  for  the  reasonable  sum  of  one  cent.  And 
many  there  be  who  look  therein  to  witness  such  things 
as  never  were  on  land  or  sea.  The  shooting  gallery,  the 
museum  of  anatomy,  and  the  snake  show  come  higher 
but  are  worth  more,  being  in  their  nature  educational. 
The    "barker"    on    the    outside,    who    announces    the 


248  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

wonders  to  be  seen,  tells  you  all  about  this.  He  and  his 
twin  brother  of  the  vaudeville  or  concert  hall  know  what 
to  say  to  attract  attention.  And  they  are  experts  at 
handling  a  crowd.  They  keep  talking  to  the  accompani- 
ment of  a  blaring  phonograph  or  a  cheap  German  band 
or  an  orchestrion  —  anything  to  make  a  noise  —  and 
during  the  confusion  tickets  are  sold,  and  the  people  are 
pushed  in  at  the  entrance. 

In  the  theaters  the  prevailing  language  corresponds 
to  the  supporting  constituency.  The  old  Bowery  Theater 
that  once  housed  traditions  of  the  English  stage  with  the 
elder  Booth,  Edwin  Forrest,  and  Charlotte  Cushman, 
still  stands  to-day,  but  it  now  belongs  more  to  the  He- 
brew than  to  the  American,  and  performances  are  given 
there  in  German  or  Yiddish  oftener  than  in  English.  At 
the  side  of  it  is  the  popular  Atlantic  Gardens,  where  vaude- 
ville, music,  beer,  and  the  German  language  are  largely 
provided  each  night.  Farther  up  town  is  the  Irving 
Place  Theater,  once  more  devoted  to  Germans;  and  as 
high  up  on  Madison  Avenue  as  Fifty-Eighth  Street  there 
is  still  another  German  theater.  The  language  seems  to 
prevail  on  the  East  Side.  Not  but  what  there  are  other 
tongues.  The  Italians  crowd  into  the  Teatro  Italiano 
on  the  Bowery,  as  the  Chinese  into  the  queer  little 
theater  on  Doyers  Street,  or  the  Irish  into  Miner's;  but 
there  is  always  someone  at  your  elbow  who  speaks  Ger- 
man, or  some  kindred  dialect.      In  other  quarters  of  the 


Pl.  55.  —  Across  the  Bowery  looking  East 


THE   BOWERY  249 

city  there  are  colonies  where  one  hears  only  Syrian,  Greek, 
Russian,  Rumanian,  Hungarian;  but  on  the  Bowery, 
though  all  nationalities  meet  and  talk  each  its  own 
language,  there  is,  aside  from  English,  a  preponderance 
of  German  and  Yiddish. 

The  babel  of  tongues  makes  more  of  a  noise  than  one 
would  imagine.  There  are  four  lines  of  street  cars  running 
up  the  Bowery,  besides  the  roaring  elevated  overhead  and 
innumerable  vans,  trucks,  beer  wagons,  delivery  wagons, 
and  pushcarts  rattling  over  pavements  and  through  side 
streets.  If  the  mob  would  make  itself  heard,  it  must  shout 
above  this  din  of  traffic.  As  a  result,  almost  everyone 
there  speaks  explosively,  talks  much  with  his  hands,  and 
expresses  acceptance  or  dissent  with  his  head.  At  the 
Chatham  Square  end  of  the  Bowery,  where  the  elevated 
makes  a  junction  with  its  Second  Avenue  line,  the  uproar 
is  increased.  The  crowd  presses  closely  to  hear  what  the 
patent-medicine  fakir  is  saying,  the  policeman  bends  over 
with  his  hand  on  your  shoulder  to  get  your  question,  the 
^'puller-in"  drags  you  into  his  store  and  shuts  the  door 
to  hear  his  own  voice.  The  Bowery  is  a  noisy,  reverberat- 
ing street.  The  roar  of  tongues  and  traffic  is  always  rising 
from  it. 

Quite  different,  all  this,  from  two  hundred  years  ago. 
Then  the  wide  thoroughfare  was  a  country  road  running 
out  to  the  farms  (bouweries)  of  the  wealthier  Dutch 
settlers  of  Manhattan ;  and  the  Stuyvesants,  Beeckmans, 


250  THE  NEW  NEW  YORK 

and  others  in  square-toed  shoes  trudged  along  it,  perhaps 
with  guns  on  their  shoulders  for  protection  against  In- 
dians. Afterward  the  road  was  extended  the  whole 
length  of  the  island  —  the  first  one  of  its  kind  —  and  in 
time  it  became  the  old  post-road  leading  into  New  Eng- 
land. With  the  British  occupation  of  the  city,  camps 
were  established  along  it.  Several  drinking-places  sprang 
up  in  the  neighborhood  of  the  camps,  and  the  evil  of 
them,  say  the  temperance  people,  has  persisted  on  the 
street  to  this  day.  No  doubt  the  saloon's  line  of  descent 
has  remained  unbroken  from  those  times  to  these,  but 
the  British  soldiery  should  not  be  unduly  blamed  for 
it.  There  are  quite  as  many  saloons  on  Seventh  and 
Eighth  avenues  as  on  the  Bowery,  and  they  are  all  of 
pure  enough  American  ancestry. 

But  the  saloon  is  about  the  only  thing  on  the  Bowery 
that  has  persisted.  Everything  else,  except  the  cor- 
rupted name,  has  faded  out.  The  Bowery  Boy  is  now 
merely  a  tradition,  and  yet  he  came  and  went  in  our  own 
time.  The  old  volunteer  fire  department,  of  which  he  was 
part  and  parcel,  brought  him  into  existence.  He  ran  with 
his  particular  engine,  and  fought  with  his  particular  gang 
—  fought  other  gangs  with  perhaps  more  vim  than  fires. 
He  was  in  some  sort  of  a  row  almost  daily ;  if  not  on  the 
street,  then  in  the  gallery  of  the  old  Bowery  Theater, 
where  his  face  and  his  fist  were  always  sufficient  passport. 
He  was  a  picturesque  ^' tough"  with  an  original  vocabulary 


Pl.  56.  —  Jewish  Cemetery  (near  Bowery) 


THE   BOWERY  251 

and  a  variegated  costume ;  and  everyone,  even  Thackeray, 
found  him  an  amusing  study. 

The  Bowery  Boy  went  out  with  the  trees  that  used  to 
line  the  historic  roadway,  and  has  been  succeeded  by  the 
bad  young  man  of  more  or  less  foreign  extraction,  with 
nothing  distinctive  about  him  except  his  cheapness  and 
his  vulgarity.  Many  of  the  older  types  and  characters 
that  bartered  and  sold  on  the  Bowery  have  passed  on,  too. 
They  have  been  driven  out,  drowned  out  by  the  wave  of 
foreigners  that  has  inundated  the  East  Side  in  the  last 
dozen  years.  Nothing  lasts  for  any  length  of  time  in  this 
new  Western  Continent.  New  York  is  its  representative 
city  in  this  respect,  and  in  it  all  things  —  homes,  build- 
ings, people,  streets,  the  Bowery  as  well  as  Broadway  — 
are  swept  along  in  a  shifting  panorama  of  change. 


THE   TENEMENT   DWELLERS 


Pl.  XV.  --  BLEECKER   STREET 


T335;T2    513>i033Ja  -  .VX  .jR 


7  -rjj 


CHAPTER  XV 

THE   TENEMENT    DWELLERS 

As  one  goes  down  the  side  streets  leading  from  the 
Bowery  to  the  East  River  —  almost  any  one  of  them  will 
furnish  illustration  —  he  notices  many  and  increasing 
changes.  The  buildings  are  usually  of  brick  with  perhaps 
stone  or  terra-cotta  trimmings,  not  small  in  proportions 
nor  mean  in  entrances,  but  marred  in  appearance  by 
many  iron  fire-escapes  that  descend  in  flights  to  the  street. 
The  fire-escapes  are  often  littered  with  sorry-looking 
clothing,  boxes,  or  cans;  the  blinds  and  doorposts  are 
grimy  with  finger  marks,  the  windows  are  dirty  and  often 
broken,  and  the  steps  and  areaways  are  worn  smooth  with 
the  shuffle  of  many  feet.  The  streets  are  just  as  wide,  and 
cleaned  perhaps  as  often  as  the  other  streets  of  the  city, 
but  there  are  rows  and  rows  of  pushcarts  that  occupy  the 
gutters,  and  the  refuse  from  them  makes  the  streets 
appear  unkempt  and  uncared  for. 

Business  after  its  kind  goes  on  here  as  elsewhere,  all  sorts 
of  shops  are  open,  trucks  rumble  over  the  pavements, 
people  come  and  go  with  bundles  and  baskets.  And  there 
is  the  same  crowding  and  huddling  of  people  as  on  Broad- 

255 


256  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

way,  —  only  more  so.  The  East  Side  is  possibly  the  most 
congested  district  in  the  world.  Figures  are  forthcoming 
from  sociologists  to  show  how  many  hundreds  live  on  a 
block,  or  how  many  thousands  live  in  a  square  mile  of 
these  tenements;  but  the  passer-by  does  not  need  the 
figures.  He  can  see  for  himself  some  thousands,  at  least, 
without  leaving  the  curb.  In  warm  weather  the  doorways 
exude  humanity,  and  the  windows  fairly  bulge  with  people. 
The  protrusions  of  headg,  arms,  and  elbows  seem  forced 
by  the  pressure  of  people  from  within.  The  fire-escapes 
and  roof  lines  and  cellar-areas  hold  their  quota  again. 
As  for  the  streets,  they  are  always  full  of  half-grown 
children,  while  the  sidewalks  are  more  or  less  strewn  with 
crawling  babies.  The  stranger  steps  over  them,  and  is 
lucky  if  he  does  not  step  on  them.  Always  and  every- 
where are  children,  children,  children. 

The  cross-streets  running  parallel  with  the  Bowery  — 
Orchard,  Ludlow,  Allen,  Catherine,  Market,  or  almost  any 
other  in  that  region  —  are  even  worse  than  the  side  streets. 
Along  them  there  are  rows  and  rows  of  three-story  build- 
ings, with  shops  below  and  tenement  quarters  above,  all 
somewhat  the  worse  for  wear,  all  hung  with  fire-escapes, 
all  crowded  and  overflowing.  Even  the  cellars  are 
sometimes  occupied  for  living  quarters  in  defiance  of 
law.  Occasionally  there  is  an  alley  or  small  court  that 
runs  back  or  across  the  rear  of  the  buildings,  with  its  accu- 
mulation  of    rubbish    and   wretched    out-houses   where 


THE  TENEMENT   DWELLERS  257 

children  play,  and  women  sit,  and  thieves  have  their 
runways  and  hiding-places. 

These  are  the  tenements,  where  people  gather  by  the 
scores  in  small,  ill-ventilated  rooms,  and  ply  the  sewing- 
machine,  making  cheap  clothing.  Men,  women,  and  chil- 
dren work  in  these  sweat-shops,  eat  there,  sleep  there. 
On  almost  every  floor  is  the  common  hallway  where 
people  wash.  Nothing  is  private.  The  inhabitants  are 
tenants  in  common  of  all  the  liberty  and  all  the  license 
of  the  tenement. 

In  such  rookeries,  where  dozens  of  families  live  in  the 
same  nest  and  each  one  is  in  the  other  one's  way,  there  is  a 
continual  round  of  evil  communication,  foul  talk,  thieving, 
brawls,  fights,  and  often  murders.  The  respectable  poor, 
cast  there  by  temporary  loss  of  work  perhaps,  begin  to  feel 
the  contamination  at  once.  In  the  acceptance  of  charity 
they  lose  self-respect,  and,  possibly,  in  a  short  time  they 
are  pauperized  —  quite  willing  to  be  helped  and  taken 
care  of  by  others.  The  next  step  is  vagrancy,  with  its 
attendant  evils.  Drink  takes  the  place  of  food  with 
the  men  and  women,  the  young  girls  become  depraved,  the 
children  frequent  the  alleys  and  the  gutters  rather  than 
the  schools.  Degeneracy  is  swift  and  demoralization 
sure.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  uphold  decency  in  such 
circumstances. 

Then  comes  in  disease  to  lend  an  added  horror  to  the 
scene.     Tuberculosis  is  in  the  lead;  and  all  the  train  of 


258  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

ills  contingent  upon  insufficient  food,  bad  sanitation,  foul 
air  and  evil  habits,  follow  after.  The  small  children  bear 
the  brunt  of  the  attack,  or  rather  they  succumb  to  it ;  but 
all  classes  feel  it.  In  the  winter,  crowded  in  small,  Hi-venti- 
lated rooms  for  warmth,  pneumonia  ferrets  them  out ;  in 
summer,  with  the  heat  puffing  in  at  the  windows  and 
the  buzz  of  flies  in  the  air,  they  are  victims  of  intestinal 
troubles.  Such  a  combination  of  miseries,  such  a  welter  of 
poverty,  crime,  and  disease,  make  the  well-to-do  shudder, 
the  charitable  over-sympathetic  and  perhaps  over-zealous, 
and  the  sociologists  and  settlement  workers  indignant. 
And  not  without  cause. 

This  is  not  the  place  to  thresh  out  the  question  of  the 
tenements,  and  yet  one  cannot  jump  over  it  or  push  around 
it  in  a  search  for  the  picturesque  or  the  commercial  in  New 
York.  It  comes  up  insistently  with  a  "What  can  be  done 
to  stop  the  misery?"  The  charity  organizations  and  the 
settlement  workers  have  given  answer,  but  it  is  not  an 
altogether  satisfactory  answer.  The  substance  of  it  is. 
Help  the  tenement  dwellers  to  get  on  their  feet,  help  them 
to  get  work,  to  hve  better,  to  be  better  mentally,  morally, 
physically.  Unfortunately,  that  is  what  a  great  many 
of  them  —  the  paupers,  the  vagrants,  the  criminals  —  do 
not  want  and  will  not  have.  Reclamation  is  something 
that  even  the  socialist  becomes  pessimistic  over  at  times. 
The  outlook  there  is  not  encouraging. 

Mr.  Robert  Hunter,  a  man  of  much  experience,  rather 


THE  TENEMENT   DWELLERS  259 

insists  that  government  do  its  duty  and  provide  properly 
for  the  children,  the  sick,  the  crippled,  the  criminal,  and 
also  those  in  poverty.  As  regards  the  crippled  and  the 
helpless,  whether  old  or  young,  everyone  will  agree  that 
Mr.  Hunter's  remedy  is  the  right  one.  For  those  who 
are  merely  pauperized  or  poverty-stricken  perhaps  the 
remedy  is  objectionable  for  no  other  reason  than  because 
it  helps  humanity.  It  is  doubtful  if  people  can  be  helped 
without  harm  resulting  therefrom.  A  crutch  is  a  con- 
venient thing  to  lean  upon,  but  how  quickly  it  takes  the 
place  of  a  leg  and  renders  the  latter  useless.  What  gov- 
ernment has  already  done  in  schoolhouses,  hospitals, 
almshouses,  penitentiaries,  Mr.  Hunter  deems  insufficient. 
He  would  improve  and  better  them,  extend  their  scope 
and  inclusion,  make  them  more  effective  and  —  comfort- 
able. There  it  is  again.  Making  things  comfortable  for 
people  is  to  cripple  their  own  exertions  toward  the  same 
end.  Carry  their  burdens,  and  they  will  let  you  carry 
to  the  end  of  the  chapter. 

Mr.  Riis,  another  man  of  much  experience  with  the 
slums  and  the  tenements,  has  a  different  remedy.  He 
would  abolish  the  tenements,  erect  new  and  sanitary 
buildings  with  light  and  air,  give  the  East  Side  family 
a  chance  at  privacy  and  a  home,  and  the  children  more 
schools,  parks,  and  playgrounds.  He  insists  that  the 
tenement  is  the  root  of  the  evil,  that  it  is  badly  constructed, 
ill-ventilated,  a  hot-bed  of  crime  and  disease.     He  is  quite 


260  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

right  about  the  hot-bed,  but  is  the  building  alone  to 
blame?  The  same  buildings  housed  respectable  fami- 
lies in  old  New  York  fifty  years  ago,  but  there  came 
from  them  neither  murders  nor  contagions.  Up  town  in 
the  New  York  of  to-day  one  finds  scores  of  apartment- 
houses  where  there  are  small,  half-dark  bedrooms,  opening 
on  narrow  air-shafts,  where  people  live  (and  pay  high 
rents  for  the  privilege) ;  but  again  they  do  not  produce 
crime  or  disease.  Moreover,  it  should  be  noted  that  the 
situation  has  been  greatly  improved  in  the  last  five  years 
by  new  tenements  that  are  better  types  of  housing  in 
respect  to  light,  ventilation,  and  general  sanitary  condi- 
tions, in  conformity  to  new  laws;  but  the  East  Side  re- 
mains practically  the  East  Side.^  Is  it  the  tenement  that 
is  so  very  bad,  or  is  it  the  crowding  of  the  tenants  that 
produces  the  evil?  If  the  East  Side  populace  were 
transferred  to  the  Central  Park,  with  the  blue  sky  only 
for  a  roof  and  fresh  air  all  around,  there  would  still  crop 
out  disease  and  crime  from  overcrowding.  The  military 
camp,  and  that  too  under  strict  discipline,  often  proves 
as  much. 

The  pleas  for  better  homes,  family  privacy,  children's 
playgrounds,  more  sunshine  —  in  short,  better  living  and 

^  The  tenants  in  the  new  model  tenements  are  chiefly  American, 
German,  English,  Scotch,  Irish,  French,  and  Scandinavian.  The  Russians, 
Poles,  Greeks,  Sicilians,  Jews,  Slovaks,  who  are  so  largely  responsible  for 
the  crowding  of  the  East  Side,  apparently  do  not  care  for  the  improved 
conditions. 


Pl.  57. — Tenements  near  Brooklyn  Bridge 


THE  TENEMENT   DWELLERS  261 

greater  comfort  —  are,  however,  well  made.  A  better 
living  should  be  provided.  But  neither  the  charitably- 
disposed,  nor  the  landlord,  nor  the  city  government, 
should  provide  it.  The  tenant  should  maintain  himself 
and  his  family.  Adversity  is  often  galling,  depressing, 
exhausting;  but  the  breadwinner  who  emerges  from  it 
does  so  with  more  self-respect,  a  stronger  will,  a  greater 
confidence,  than  ever.     It  is  the  making  of  the  man. 

But  self-heljD,  it  is  well  argued,  is  not  possible  for  all 
those  on  the  East  Side  —  not  possible  at  least  within 
the  city's  limits.  There  are  over  a  hundred  thousand 
tenements  and  over  a  million  of  the  poorer  class  of  ten- 
ants in  New  York.  There  is  hardly  proper  breathing 
space  on  the  island  for  such  a  mass,  to  say  nothing  of 
comfortable  homes  and  playgrounds.  To  improve  the 
tenements  is  perhaps  a  temporary  makeshift.  And 
besides,  it  results  immediately  in  a  new  influx  of  tenants 
from  without  to  take  advantage  of  the  improved  con- 
ditions. The  line  of  least  resistance,  whether  it  be  a 
bread  line  or  pleasant  tenement  conditions,  is  sure  to  be 
followed.  The  underlying  evil  of  congestion  is  not  even 
scotched. 

To  the  cry  of  Mr.  Riis,  ^'AboHsh  the  tenements!" 
there  may  be  suggested  an  alternative.  Why  not  abolish 
the  tenants?  Not  all  of  them.  There  must,  of  course, 
be  working  people  living  in  the  city,  and  presumably 
there  always  will  be  factories  to  supply  a  large  part  of 


262  THE    NEW   NEW   YORK 

them  with  work,  though  perhaps  they  might  better  be 
located  out  of  the  town ;  but  there  are  certain  undesirable 
citizens,  masquerading  as  ''working  people,"  who  crowd 
the  tenements  and  congest  the  city  to  the  danger  point, 
who  might  be  eliminated  from  the  problem,  by  forcing 
them  to  live  elsewhere.  Force  (not  necessarily  physical) 
will  be  necessary,  for  of  their  own  accord  these  people 
will  not  live  outside  the  city.  Rapid  transit,  a  decent 
home  in  the  country,  plenty  of  fresh  air  and  sunshine,  with 
steady  work,  have  been  tried  and  found  to  be  without 
charm  or  interest  for  them.  They  prefer  the  crowded 
quarters  of  the  town,  with  all  their  vice  and  squalor  and 
misery  and  crime. 

The  undesirable  class  that  should  be  abolished  is  the 
criminal,  the  vagrant,  the  beggar,  the  pauper,  the  man 
who  works  only  when  the  job  is  easy  and  agreeable,  and 
the  man  who  insists  upon  working  himself  and  his  family 
to  death  in  the  sweat-shops.  If  these  could  be  forbidden 
the  city,  a  large  percentage  of  the  misery,  vice,  and  disease 
of  the  present  tenement  would  be  done  away  with  at 
once.     But  how  is  it  to  be  accomplished? 

If  there  is  any  virtue  in  our  boasted  home  rule  of 
municipalities,  then  a  city  should  be  able,  by  law,  to  ex- 
clude the  vagrant  and  the  pauper  classes.  It  might  not 
be  possible  to  do  this  by  a  threat  of  prosecution,  as  some- 
times criminals  are  driven  out  by  the  police;  but  it  could 
be  done,  perhaps  by  taxation.     In  Berlin,  for  instance, 


Pl.  58.  —  East  Rivek  Tenements 


THE   TENEMENT   DWELLERS  263 

the  stranger  finds,  after  a  ten  days'  or  a  two  weeks'  stop 
in  the  city,  that  he  is  visited  by  a  tax-collector,  who  insists 
upon  his  contributing  to  the  municipal  purse.  This  is 
direct  taxation,  which  cannot  be  levied  by  our  United 
States  government,  but  may  be  levied  by  our  state  or 
city  governments.  A  small  specific  sum  for  each  person 
coming  to  live  in  the  city  (say,  ten  dollars  or  more  a 
head,  payable  upon  entrance  and  punishable  by  impris- 
onment and  deportation  if  evaded)  would  not  exclude 
the  worthy,  the  capable,  and  the  industrious,  but  would 
shut  out  practically  the  criminal,  the  vagrant,  and  the 
pauper  classes  which  now  make  the  slums,  and  sow  the 
city  with  plague  spots,  and  burden  the  tax-payer  for 
their  support. 

Again,  it  might  be  possible  through  the  Health  De- 
partment to  regard  the  tenements  as  public  nuisances, 
and  thus  cause  their  abatement;  or  by  regarding  them 
as  a  menace  to  the  public  health,  to  insist  that  there  be 
only  so  many  people  allowed  on  each  city  "block,"  or  in 
each  house,  or  on  each  floor  of  a  house.  There  is  already 
some  prescription  of  the  number  of  cubic  feet  of  air  that 
each  tenement-occupant  must  have;  but  it  is  almost 
impossible  to  prevent  its  evasion.  As  soon  as  the  in- 
spector's back  is  turned,  the  rooms  fill  up  again  with 
''boarders"  or  ''relatives";  and  the  old  crowding  goes 
on,  even  in  the  newest  and  most  improved  tenements. 
Still,  it  should  be  possible  for  the  modern  city  to  rid 


264  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

itself  of  its  criminal  and  vagrant  classes.  As  a  measure 
of  self-protection  it  is  being  forced  upon  the  considera- 
tion more  and  more  each  day.  New  York  is  not  bound, 
either  in  law  or  in  common  humanity,  to  feed,  clothe, 
and  harbor  all  the  undesirables  that  steamship  lines 
bring  to  it  from  abroad.  And  it  is  the  duty  of  Congress 
to  lend  a  hand  by  stopping  such  people  from  coming 
into  the  country  in  the  first  place. 

We  are  now  nearer  to  the  gist  of  the  matter.  Congress 
with  its  suicidal  laissez-faire  policy  as  regards  immigra- 
tion, by  permitting  Europe  to  send  us  any  kind  of  im- 
migrants it  pleases,  is  directly  responsible  for  the  over- 
crowded tenements  of  the  city.  In  round  numbers,  a 
million  immigrants  a  year  arrive  at  the  port  of  New 
York.  Of  these  fully  three-quarters  (750,000)  are  of 
very  questionable  desirability,  to  say  the  least.  They 
are  Russians,  Poles,  Bohemians,  Lithuanians,  Greeks, 
Rumanians,  Slovaks,  Armenians,  Sicilians.  They  are 
the  class  that  do  not  go  to  the  farm,  but  to  the  city ;  and 
if  they  work  at  all  it  is  in  the  sweat-shop,  the  factory, 
and  the  mine.  They  benefit  the  steamship  lines  that 
bring  them  here  by  some  twenty  dollars  a  head;  they 
furnish  a  cheap  unskilled  labor  for  the  manufacturer  and 
the  mine  operator ;  and  they  burden  and  render  miserable 
whatever  city  or  community  they  settle  in.  Naturally, 
the  poorest  and  most  worthless  of  the  750,000  never  get 
any  farther  than  their  port  of  entry  —  New  York.     They 


THE   TENEMENT   DWELLERS  265 

go  over  to  the  East  Side  and  help  on  the  misery  there. 
Each  year  as  the  crowding  increases  Charity  girds  its  loins 
and  sends  forth  an  extra  appeal ;  ^  the  bread  lines  are  ex- 
tended until  the  police  are  forced  to  break  them  up ;  social- 
ism and  anarchy  parade,  talk,  importune,  and  threaten ;  and 
the  torrent  of  woe  in  the  tenements  grows  wider  and  deeper. 

Mr.  Hunter  and  others,  in  intimate  touch  with  condi- 
tions, state  that  most  of  the  poverty-stricken  in  the 
cities  are  foreigners,  that  ninety-five  per  cent  of  the  slum- 
dwellers  are  of  foreign  birth,  and  again  that  over  fifty 
per  cent  of  the  paupers  and  the  insane  are  foreign-born. 
The  settlement  workers  practically  unite  in  testimony  to 
the  effect  that  the  most  incorrigible  slummers,  paupers, 
and  vagrants  are  the  Italians  and  the  Jews.  The  United 
Hebrew  Charities  keeps  reporting  something  over  one 
hundred  thousand  Jews  in  New  York  who  are  unable  to 
supply  themselves  with  the  immediate  necessaries  of  life. 
The  report  if  made  for  the  other  nationalities  put  down 
among  the  undesirables  would  not  be  essentially  different. 
And  on  one  point  all  the  settlement  workers  are  once 
more  practically  united.  The  American-born  of  this 
foreign  parentage  is  the  most  vicious  criminal  of  them  all. 

So  it  seems  that  the  city  is  supporting,  not  alone  its 
own  indigent   and  poverty-stricken,   not  alone  its   own 

'  New  York  pays  out  annually  about  ten  millions  of  dollars  to  chari- 
table and  helpful  institutions.  This  is  done  by  the  city  government  alone. 
The  sum  expended  by  private  charity  in  addition  cannot  be  accurately 
computed. 


266  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

paupers  and  vagrants,  but  those  of  other  countries  that 
are  dumped  upon  New  York  docks  by  devil-may-care 
steamship  companies.  "We  have  Russia's  poverty, 
Poland's  poverty,  Italy's  poverty,  Hungary's  poverty, 
Bohemia's  poverty  —  and  what  other  nations  have  we 
not?"  ^  How  shall  the  city  ever  improve  the  East  Side 
and  its  tenements  with  yearly  a  heavier  influx  than  be- 
fore of  just  this  element?  How  shall  the  police  cope 
with  crime  when  it  keeps  increasing  with  the  continued 
coming  of  these  foreign  hordes?  Once  more,  it  is  the 
plain  duty  of  Congress  to  stop  this  immigration,  or  else 
assume  the  responsibility  for  it  instead  of  putting  it  on 
the  shoulders  of  New  York.  The  undesirables  should 
be  turned  back  at  the  entrance  of  the  harbor,  if  not 
earlier,  by  United  States  law.  Failing  in  that,  the  city 
should  close  its  door  and  open  it  only  on  the  payment  of 
an  admission  fee  (a  suitable  tax)  that  would  prohibit  the 
worthless  element  from  entering. 

But  what  are  the  unfortunates  without  the  gates  to  do  ? 
Where  are  they  to  go?  They  do  not  hke  living  in  the 
country,  they  are  not  farmers,  they  are  not  even  me- 
chanics or  good  ordinary  day-laborers.  They  have  al- 
ways been  used  to  the  city  and  city  life.  What  are  they 
to   do  ?  ^     Fortunately,  so   long   as  these  people   remain 

1  Hunter,  Poverty,  p.  262. 

'  The  reports  of  the  Jewish  Agricultural  Aid  Society,  with  Baron  de 
Hirsch's  money  behind  it,  emphasizes,  by  the  poverty  of  its  figures,  the 
difficulties  of  doing  anything  with  the  Jews  as  farmers;    the  Armenians 


Pl.  .JiJ. —Elevated  Road  on  Second  Avenue 


THE  TENEMENT   DWELLERS  267 

without  the  gates,  New  York  does  not  have  to  answer 
those  questions.  It  can  ignore  them.  And  if  it  chose 
to  fling  back  savagely,  ''Go  to  the  farms  and  small  vil- 
lages and  work  there,  or  go  back  to  the  country  from 
which  you  came,"  no  one  could  gainsay  either  the  frank- 
ness nor  the  justness  of  the  answer.  Why  should  the 
beggar  be  such  a  chooser  of  what  he  likes  or  dislikes? 
Those  who  made  the  United  States  and  those  who  are 
now  upholding  the  country,  native  and  foreign  alike, 
have  not  asked  about  the  work  before  them  whether 
they  liked  it  or  not ;  they  have  taken  hold  of  it  and  done 
it.  No  man  in  this  western  world  does  exactly  as  he 
pleases  except  this  same  pauper,  vagrant,  and  criminal. 
It  is  perhaps  time  he  was  compelled  to  do  his  duty  rather 
than  allowed  to  do  his  pleasure. 

And  a  measure  of  compulsion  would  do  no  harm  to  the 
same  class  already  within  the  city.  There  has  been 
perhaps  too  much  charity,  too  much  help.  Humanity 
is  that  strange  contrary  animal  which,  if  one  seeks  to 
lift  it  up,  will  insist  upon  getting  down ;  and  if  pushed 
down,  it  will  insist  upon  getting  up.  The  pauper  and  the 
vagrant  would  not  only  be  a  surprise  to  himself,  but  a 
benefit  perhaps  to  the  town  if  he  were  arbitrarily  set  to 
work  on  the  pubhc  streets.     Getting  for  him  comfortable 

and  Turks  and  Greeks  are  peddlers  and  shop-keepers  rather  than  laborers; 
the  Sicilians  will  work  in  railways  and  tunneling,  but  they  prefer  city  em- 
ployment of  a  political  nature  —  leaning  on  a  broom  in  the  Street  Cleaning 
Department,  for  instance  —  if  they  can  get  it. 


268  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

and  convenient  jobs,  encouraging  him  to  work,  helping 
him  along  by  advice,  example,  and  praise  —  how  many, 
many  times  the  settlement  workers  have  reported  the 
futility  of  this  !  Why  not  take  a  leaf  from  the  experience 
of  Berlin?     Why  not  use  some  compulsion? 

All  of  which  sounds  harsh  in  judgment  and  seems  want- 
ing in  sympathy.  But  why  should  not  one's  sympathy 
go  out  to  the  just  as  well  as  to  the  unjust?  Why  not 
sympathize  with  the  city  rather  than  with  those  who 
would  ruin  it  ?  There  is  no  under-dog  in  the  fight.  That 
simile  is  almost  always  misleading.  The  only  person 
who  is  holding  down  the  vagrant  is  himself.  Putting  him 
upon  his  feet  and  giving  him  a  shoulder  to  lean  upon  have 
failed  most  lamentably.  Other  nations  have  compelled 
him,  out  of  his  own  strength,  to  get  upon  his  feet  and 
stand  there.  There  are  no  such  slums  as  ours  in  German 
cities ;  there  are  no  East  Sides  in  Stockholm ;  there  are 
no  beggars  or  vagrants  in  Switzerland.  We  might  profit 
by  their  experience. 

Such  at  least  is  the  feeling  of  the  average  person  who 
turns  this  tenement  question  over  and  over,  seeking  an 
answer.  It  seems  almost  impossible  to  help  or  improve 
conditions  by  kindness  or  charity,  and  one  wonders  if 
there  might  not  be  some  virtue  in  resisting  them.  A 
city  must  protect  itself  or  suffer  the  consequences  of 
neglect.  New  York  must  do  something  with  its  East 
Side.     It  is  not  merely  an  objectionable  spot  to  munici- 


eu, 


p-( 


THE   TENEMENT   DWELLERS  269 

pal  art  societies  —  something  that  mars  the  beauty  of 
the  city  —  or  an  item  of  expense  to  the  tax-payer  and 
the  charitably  disposed;  it  is  a  menace  to  the  public 
health,  a  prolific  source  of  contagion.  Worst  of  all,  it  is 
a  sink  of  crime  and  immorality.  It  is  not  creditable  to 
New  York.  It  is  one  of  the  city's  most  hideous  features, 
one  of  its  most  violent   and  forbidding   contrasts. 


CITY   GUARDIANS 


Pu.  XVI.  — SECOND    AVENUE 


3UH3VA    aM0032-~.IVX  .jH 


CHAPTER   XVI 

CITY   GUARDIANS 

When  one  becomes  involved  in  the  tenement  problem, 
and  sees  for  himself  how  the  other-half  lives,  the  East  Side 
is  no  longer  amusing  or  attractive.  The  very  poverty, 
squalor,  and  disorder  of  it,  with  the  helter-skelter  of  crazy 
buildings  and  vivid  colors,  may  be  picturesque  enough; 
but  even  the  artist  cannot  be  interested  in  it  for  long. 
People  go  there  from  Upper  New  York  on  slumming 
expeditions  with  the  same  morbid  curiosity  that  takes 
the  people  of  Nether  New  York  to  the  Morgue ;  but  the 
horror  of  the  one  is  the  horror  of  the  other,  and  a  taste 
for  either  is  not  healthy.  The  East  Side  is  a  repellent 
place,  a  place  where  people  die  in  the  attempt  to  live; 
and  perhaps  too  much  has  been  said  about  it  already. 

And  yet  there  are  other  dark  features  of  the  city  that 
are  not  to  be  slipped  by  unmentioned  if  one  would  make 
a  fair  survey  and  a  candid  commentary.  New  York  is 
not  all  atune  to  the  hum  of  profitable  business;  pros- 
perity is  not  obtrusively  in  evidence  everywhere  through- 
out its  limits.  The  mere  fact  that  ten  people  out  of  every 
hundred  among  the  poor  dying  within  the  city  limits,  are 
T  273 


274  THE    NEW   NEW   YORK 

buried  in  the  Potter's  Field  —  buried  three  deep  at  that 

—  would  give  one  quite  a  different  notion. 

As  intimated  some  pages  back,  these  poor  are  not  ex- 
clusively of  New  York  growth,  not  all  of  home  manufac- 
ture. Yet  immigration  is  not  to  be  blamed  for  everything. 
There  is  a  West  Side  as  well  as  an  East  Side,  where  pau- 
perized Americans  live  in  brick  shanties,  where  negroes 
and  poor  whites  and  Irish-Americans  gather  in  forlorn 
quarters,  and  where  poverty,  crime,  and  disease  are  al- 
most as  prevalent  as  elsewhere  in  the  city.  Moreover, 
right  through  the  heart  of  the  Upper  City,  between  the 
two  dismal  Sides,  cuts  that  Great  White  Way,  which  has 
for  its  high-light  the  district  known  as  ''The  Tenderloin" 

—  a  feature  truly  enough  American,  and  not  the  less  of 
a  blotch  and  a  patch  on  the  city  because  illuminated  by 
electricity,  and  made  gaudy  by  the  extravagance  of  the 
foolish. 

To  the  rural  visitor  from  Olean  or  Skowhegan  "The 
Tenderloin"  at  night  looks  very  attractive,  is  bubbling 
over  with  mirth,  or  wildly  hilarious  with  champagne. 
It  is  "a  great  sight,"  and  the  gay  ladies  who  furnish 
the  laughter  and  help  drink  the  champagne  seem  to 
lead  a  charmed  life;  but  when  the  play  is  done  and 
the  curtain  falls,  the  faces  under  their  rouge  show  any- 
thing but  gayety.  Many  before  them  have  laughed  the 
same  laughter  and  gone  their  way,  because  "The  Ten- 
derloin" has  no  use  for  tears;    but  the  "gay  time"  is 


Pl.  61. — Police  Headquakters 


CITY   GUARDIANS  275 

simulated,  and  the  life  itself  is  just  as  hideous  after  its 
kind  as  any  to  be  found  in  the  dens  of  the  hopeless  or 
the  dives  of  the  submerged. 

The  Great  White  Way  is  the  place  where  the  rapid 
career  usually  begins,  and  the  East  Side  is  often  the  place 
of  its  ending.  For  the  processes  of  degeneracy  may 
finally  land  the  one-time  habitue  of  ''The  Tenderloin"" 
into  the  pitiless  precincts  of  the  Bowery,  or  the  darkness 
of  the  Mott  Street  opium-joints.  ''The  Tenderloin"  is 
always  full  of  evil  promise.  Here  is  where  crime  is  born 
and  brought  to  maturity.  Here  is  where  the  police  throw 
out  their  first  drag-net  for  the  defaulter,  the  embezzler, 
the  forger,  the  well-dressed  thief.  Most  of  the  race-track, 
the  pool-room,  the  bucket-shop  people  belong  here;  and 
confidence  men,  badger-game  men,  with  pickpockets 
and  ordinary  swindlers,  are  always  in  its  offing,  keeping 
a  weather-eye  open  for  prey.  The  gay  ladies  sooner  or 
later  become  the  stool-pigeons  of  the  swindlers  and  help 
them  in  their  hawking.  Such  criminals  as  these  seem 
more  cunning  than  brutal,  but  perhaps  they  are  more 
dangerous  for  that  very  reason.  The  police  have  to  keep 
them  on  the  blotter  all  the  time.  "The  Tenderloin" 
is  perhaps  under  stricter  surveillance  than  the  Bowery 
and  its  purlieus. 

And  yet  on  the  surface  New  York,  both  Upper  and 
Nether,  seems  to  be  a  well-ordered,  law-abiding  city. 
The   stranger   who   strolls   along   the   avenues,    or   even 


276  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

through  the  ill-reputed  Sides,  meets  with  no  overt  act 
of  lawlessness,  sees  no  murders  or  robberies,  hears  no 
disturbances,  knows  no  horrors.  But  each  year  there 
are  something  over  one  hundred  and  seventy-five  thou- 
sand prisoners  brought  to  the  bar  in  the  various  police 
courts  of  the  city.  They  are  not  all  charged  with  steal- 
ing, though  the  loss  of  property  reported  at  the  police 
stations  through  burglaries  amounts  to  fifteen  or  twenty 
millions  a  year.  There  are  among  the  prisoners  many 
thugs,  yeggmen,  whyos,  up  for  criminal  assault;  many 
members  of  gangs  that  belong  on  the  Bowery,  or  Cherry 
Street,  or  in  Harlem,  or  along  the  far  avenues,  arrested 
for  ''doing"  each  other;  many  hold-up  men,  long-shore 
crooks,  and  harbor  ruffians,  with  some  blackmailers  be- 
longing to  the  Black  Hand  or  other  organizations  of 
criminals.  Then  there  are  the  vagrants,  those  charged 
with  being  ''drunk  and  disorderly,"  the  irresponsible, 
the  suddenly  insane.  Indeed,  one  hardly  knows  what 
New  York  would  do  if  the  police  were  not  on  hand  to 
keep  the  lawless  and  the  violent  in  restraint. 

It  is  generally  supposed  that  the  police  of  a  city  have 
but  one  duty  to  perform,  namely,  to  arrest  law-breakers ; 
but  the  New  York  police  have  other  things  than  that  on 
their  schedule.  The  department  is  broken  up  into  many 
divisions,  with  just  as  many  different  functions  as  there 
are  divisions.  Aside  from  the  regular  patrolmen  there 
is   the  Sanitary  Squad,    that  has  to  do  with  enforcing 


CITY  GUARDIANS  277 

health  regulations ;  the  Traffic  Squad,  that  regulates  the 
traffic  of  the  great  thoroughfares ;  the  Court  Squad,  that 
is  in  attendance  on  the  courts;  the  Boiler  Squad,  that 
examines  engines,  boilers,  and  engineers.  Then  again 
there  are  squads  that  do  special  duty  in  special  places, 
such  as  the  Steamboat,  Harbor,  Bridge,  and  Park  police ; 
and  the  picked  men  that  serve  along  such  thoroughfares 
as  Broadway  or  about  the  railway  stations.  Wherever 
the  place  of  service,  the  facilities  for  swift  action  and 
concentration  of  forces  are  furnished  either  in  horses  or 
bicycles  or  boats  or  patrol  wagons.  The  police  move 
swiftly — too  swiftly  for  the  average  law-breaker's  comfort. 
The  bureaus  of  the  department  emphasize,  again,  the 
many  functions  of  the  police.  For  examples,  there  are 
the  Detective  Bureau,  with  its  interesting  machinery  for 
the  detection  of  crime  and  criminals,  and  the  Bureau  of 
Information,  which  looks  up  the  antecedents  of  the 
several  hundred  people  each  year  who  are  ''found  dead" 
in  the  city,  takes  charge  of  and  finds  out  about  the  youth- 
ful ''runaways"  who  come  to  the  city  because  tired  of 
their  home  life  in  the  country,  returns  each  year  several 
thousand  "lost"  children,  looks  after  people  run  over 
or  killed  in  the  city  streets,  gathers  information  about 
the  unknown  suicides.  Then  there  are  the  License 
Bureau,  which  has  to  do  with  the  thousands  of  applica- 
tions for  licenses,  the  Lost  Property  Office,  where  one 
can  recover  his   belongings  by  proper  identification   of 


278  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

them,  the  Bureau  of  Encumbrances,  which  performs  all 
sorts  of  no  man's  duties,  and  the  House  of  Detention,  — 
''the  prison  of  the  innocent, "  —  where  witnesses  are  held 
pending  trials. 

Again,  the  police  not  only  patrol  the  streets,  but  they 
control  crowds,  regulate  public  amusements,  help  the 
ambulances,  stop  the  fast-driving  automobiles,  send  in 
fire-alarms,  act  as  witnesses,  guard  the  election  booths 
and  boxes,  keep  order  in  the  courts,  ferret  out  criminals 
for  the  District  Attorney,  haunt  the  railroad  stations 
for  arriving  crooks,  —  in  short,  watch  over  the  whole  city 
that  it  may  come  to  no  harm.  It  has  been  said  that  they 
watch  the  city  and  the  criminal  classes  to  their  own 
profit,  that  they  themselves  are  corrupt  and  accept 
bribes  and  hush-money,  that  they  blackmail  the  saloons, 
the  bagnios,  and  the  pool-rooms,  growing  wealthy  out  of 
their  double  dealing.  The  charge  is  easily  made,  since  it 
is  general  and  hits  no  one  in  particular;  and,  some- 
times, it  is  specifically  made  and  proved.  It  would  be 
strange  if  out  of  nine  or  ten  thousand  men,  with  almost 
unlimited  power  in  the  matter  of  blackmail,  there  were 
not  some  wanting  in  honesty.  What  then  !  Is  the  whole 
force  ''rotten"  in  consequence? 

It  is  true  again  that  occasionally  a  man  is  dismissed 
from  the  force  for  cowardice ;  but  who  has  ever  suggested 
that  the  police  as  a  body  were  wanting  in  courage  ?  As 
they  come  out  of  the  police-stations  in  squads  of  eight 


Pl.  62.  —  Criminal  Court  Building 


CITY   GUARDIANS  279 

or  ten  to  go  on  duty,  you  may  notice  that  practically  all 
of  them  have  smooth  and  young-looking  faces,  that  their 
lips  shut  close  as  the  jaws  of  a  steel  trap,  and  that  their 
chins  are  often  a  bit  ''under-shot"  like  bulldogs'.  From 
their  faces  alone  you  know  that  the  police  are  not  lack- 
ing in  courage,  that  they  are  not  afraid  of  thief  or  thug 
or  trouble  of  any  kind. 

Have  they  not  proved  their  bravery  again  and  again? 
Read  the  deeds  of  the  honor  men  who  have  medals  on  their 
coat  lapels;  or  read  almost  any  day  in  the  newspapers, 
the  stopping  of  runaways  by  the  mounted  police  in  the 
Central  Park,  or  the  perilous  rescues  at  fires.  Read 
the  annals  of  the  Harbor  Squad,  and  the  scores  of  times 
the  police  have  gone  overboard  into  the  floating  ice  of  mid- 
winter to  save  some  poor  wretch  fallen  off  a  dock  in  the 
dark.  Read  the  stories  of  the  Bridge  Police  and  their  thrill- 
ing adventures  with  accidents  and  suicides  high  up  in  the 
air  above  the  East  River.  Even  the  bicycle  men,  who  hold 
up  speeding  automobiles,  convince  one  that  grit  belongs  to 
the  police  either  by  education  or  inheritance  or  tradition. 
A  man  cannot  remain  on  the  force  for  long  without  it. 

And  when  did  the  police  ever  run  from  a  mob,  or  give 
up  a  prisoner  without  a  fight,  or  fail  to  close  in  on  a  thief 
because  he  pointed  a  pistol?  Occasionally  a  man  has 
been  outnumbered,  or  in  the  face  of  certain  death  has 
declined  to  attack  single-handed  a  band  of  thugs ;  but  he 
has  usually  forfeited  his  baton  and  shield,  and  quit  the 


280  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

force  in  consequence  thereof.  And  many  a  patrolman 
has  been  killed  outright  because  of  being  too  brave, 
because  of  attacking  against  overwhelming  numbers/ 

New  York  is  proud  of  its  police  force,  and  keeps  re- 
iterating that  it  is  the  very  ''finest"  in  all  the  world  —  a 
statement  that  is  not  modest  but  has  a  good  deal  of  truth 
in  it.  Certainly  as  one  sees  the  police  at  the  annual  parade, 
swinging  down  Fifth  Avenue,  six  thousand  strong,  there 
is  a  feeling  that  it  is  an  invincible  body  of  men.  It  marches 
well;  it  is  precise,  alert,  disciplined.  The  men  may  be 
relied  upon  to  obey  orders  absolutely,  and  to  move, 
attack,  and  shoot,  in  case  of  a  riot,  as  a  united  body.  The 
mob  of  the  future  that  can  stand  up  before  their  moving 
columns  will  have  more  courage  than  any  of  its  prede- 
cessors ;  and  the  rescuing  party  that  can  break  through 
their  solid  square  or  marching  diamond  will  need  Gatling 
guns  to  prepare  the  way. 

The  mounted  police,  moving  fourteen  abreast,  keep  the 
line  formation  quite  as  wtII  as  the  foot  police.  They  are 
perfectly  drilled,  moving  each  man  and  horse  like  a  cen- 
taur, each  line  like  a  solid  column.  Even  the  bicycle 
men  and  the  drivers  of  the  patrol  wagons  are  infused 
with  the  military  spirit.  Precision,  accuracy,  obedience 
are  stamped  upon  them  all.  Honor  to  General  Bingham, 
who  is  to  be  credited  with  implanting  this  new  spirit  in 

'See  "The  Roll  of  Honor  of  the  New  York  Police,"  by  Theodore 
Roosevelt,  in  The  Century  Magazine,  October,  1897. 


CITY  GUARDIANS  281 

the  police !  And  honor  again  to  the  Mayor,  who  in  spite 
of  party  pressure  and  partisan  virulence  has  resolutely 
sustained  the  Commissioner  of  Police  in  his  office  and 
in  his  work ! 

The  present  police  regime  is  decidedly  of  modern 
growth.  True  enough,  there  were  police  in  the  city  from 
the  early  days,  but  they  were  constabulary  in  nature, 
and  no  doubt  much  mocked  and  little  respected  by  the 
flippant  and  the  ungodly  in  the  community.  A  record  of 
1693,  for  instance,  describes  the  policeman  of  that  day  as  a 
gorgeous  affair  in  livery,  with  shoes  and  stockings  of 
municipal  furnishing,  and  carrying  a  badge  of  "ye  city 
arms."  He  must  have  been  a  target  for  the  slings  and 
arrows  of  the  town,  and  that  is  about  all.  Even  so  recently 
as  1850  the  police  of  the  city  were  more  like  bailiffs  than 
regulars.  They  wore  no  uniform,  had  a  star-shaped 
badge  pinned  on  their  coat,  and  spent  most  of  their 
time  sitting  on  skids  and  barrels,  or  leaning  against  bars 
in  the  corner  saloons.  After  the  Draft  Riots  they  became 
something  of  a  power  because  moving  as  a  body ;  and  after 
1886,  when  they  took  a  strong  hand  in  the  street-car  strikes, 
they  became  a  force  to  be  feared.  Since  then  they  have 
steadily  improved  in  numbers  and  in  discipline,  until  to- 
day they  have  the  standing  of  a  small  army.  There  are 
over  nine  thousand  men  on  the  force,  well-officered,  well- 
trained,  well-seasoned.  New  York  is  very  right  in  being 
proud  of  its  police. 


282  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

And  also  of  its  firemen.  The  Fire  Department  is,  again, 
one  of  the  most  efficient  in  the  world.  It  has  become  so 
through  sheer  necessity.  There  are  ten  fires  in  New  York 
to  one  in  London  or  Paris,  and  swiftness  in  extinguishing 
them  is  the  result  of  having  not  only  many  to  extinguish, 
but  also  of  having  the  best  modern  machinery  in  the  hands 
of  men  trained  to  utilize  every  possible  fraction  of  time. 
All  the  fire-fighting  men  are  athletic.  This  is  required  by 
the  rigid  examination  antecedent  to  being  enrolled  in  the 
department.  Agility,  catlike  quickness,  strength,  are 
indispensable  qualities.  Practice  does  the  rest.  The 
engines  (now  being  superseded  by  the  very  successful 
high-pressure  system^)  are  of  the  latest  patterns,  the  water 
towers  are  the  highest,  the  hook-and-ladder  extensions  the 
longest  obtainable.  Electricity,  of  course,  sends  in  the 
alarms,  rings  the  gongs,  lights  the  fires  in  the  engines,  un- 
.  snaps  the  horses.  Everything  is  done  with  electric  speed. 
That  there  may  be  no  precious  minute  lost  in  sending  in  an 
alarm,  there  are  hundreds  of  boxes  placed  in  private  build- 
ings so  that  in  case  of  fire  it  is  only  necessary  to  pull  down 
a  hook,  and  an  engine  will  be  there  in  perhaps  two  minutes. 

*  The  High  Pressure  or  Salt  Water  Service,  by  which  name  it  is  popu- 
larly known,  has  been  in  most  successful  operation  since  July,  1908.  "It 
is  capable  of  pumping  at  the  rate  of  fifty  million  gallons  of  water  in  twenty- 
four  hours,  against  a  pressure  of  350  pounds  per  square  inch,  and  this 
enormous  force  against  whicn  no  imaginable  conflagration  could  stand,  can 
be  concentrated  at  any  point  within  the  High  Pressure  Fire  District,  and 
made  available  within  two  minutes  after  the  alarm  of  fire  is  given." 
Message  of  Hon.  George  B.  McClellan,  The  Mayor,  January  4,  1909. 


Pl.  63.  —  Bridge  of  Sighs  (Tombs) 


CITY  GUARDIANS  283 

Nothing  is  answered  so  quickly  as  a  fire  call  in  an  Ameri- 
can city. 

There  are  over  four  thousand  men  in  the  uniformed 
service  of  the  New  York  Fire  Department.  In  Manhattan 
and  the  Bronx  alone  there  are  eighty-four  engine  com- 
panies, standing  ready  night  and  day,  men  and  horses 
alike,  for  the  headlong  rush  to  the  fire.  Just  as  ready  are 
the  thirty-five  hook-and-ladder  companies  with  their 
extension  and  scaling  ladders.  They  never  know  what 
the  need  or  what  frightful  risk  will  be  asked  of  them,  but 
they  go  prepared  for  anything.  Along  the  rivers  there  are 
fire-boats  stationed  at  different  piers  —  boats  that  look 
like  monitors  with  brass-nozzled  hose  mounted  like  rapid- 
fire  guns  —  standing  ready  again,  night  and  day,  for  the 
instant  dash  up  or  down  the  stream  to  put  out  dock  or 
steamboat  fires.  The  handling  of  an  emergency  with 
swiftness  —  swiftness  above  all  things  —  is  required  of 
every  one  of  them. 

To  maintain  such  an  equipment,  with  its  bureaus 
for  extinguishing,  for  preventing,  and  for  investigating 
fire,  is,  of  course,  a  pretty  item  of  expense.  Seven  and  a 
half  milHons  was  in  the  budget  for  1908  —  quite  enough  to 
make  one  gasp  at  our  extravagance.  But  the  outlay  is 
warranted  by  the  circumstances.  The  fire  losses  in  New 
York  amount  to  some  twelve  million  dollars  a  year,  and 
the  number  of  fires  to  something  like  ten  thousand.  The 
latter  figure  generally  causes  a  stranger  to  throw  up  his 


284  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

hands  in  horror  or  despair,  and  it  has  been  known  to  give 
many  a  native  a  decided  shock.  It  seems  almost  incredible 
that  any  city  could  average  thirty  fires  a  day,  and  still  live 
to  tell  the  tale.     Yet  New  York  has  that  record. 

How  does  it  happen  ?  What  the  cause  of  these  many 
outbreaks  of  fire  ?  Whose  the  fault  ?  It  is  said  that  our 
bad  construction  is  to  blame,  that  we  build  houses  of 
wood  that  are  httle  more  than  fire-traps  —  ''tinder- 
boxes"  is  the  more  common  term.  It  is  said  further 
that  the  buildings  are  easily  ignited,  that  they  go  up 
swiftly  ''in  puffs  of  smoke,"  and  that  they  shower 
sparks  like  shooting  stars  on  all  the  neighboring  buildings. 
Perhaps  there  is  some  truth  in  that,  though  there  are  few 
wooden  buildings  left  in  New  York,  and  those  built  of 
brick  and  stone  differ  but  little  from  similar  structures  in 
London  or  Paris.  As  for  fire-proof  structures,  perhaps  we 
are  better  off  in  respect  of  them  than  any  other  modern 
city.  Having  learned  something  from  our  experiences, 
and  much  desiring  prevention  to  repetition,  there  has  been 
a  decided  effort  to  construct  buildings  absolutely  fire-proof. 
But,  taking  our  buildings  at  their  worst,  it  is  not  possible 
that  they  are  ten  times  more  inflammable  than  those  of 
Europe.  Yet  we  have  ten  times  as  many  conflagrations. 
There  is  some  other  reason  for  so  much  smoke.  How  do 
the  fires  start  in  the  first  place  ?  Perhaps  the  fire  figures 
for  the  whole  United  States  may  help  us  out,  or  at  least 
prove  suggestive. 


CITY  GUARDIANS  285 

The  destruction  of  life  by  fire  in  this  country  amounts 
to  seven  thousand  people  a  year,  the  destruction  of  prop- 
erty amounts  to  two  hundred  millions  a  year ;  the  fighting 
of  fire,  and  the  protection  from  it  furnished  by  insur- 
ance companies,  amounts  to  four  hundred  millions  a 
year.  This  looks  very  much  like  waste  caused  by 
wanton  carelessness.  The  disregard  of  consequences, 
the  reckless  attitude  of  mind,  is,  in  fact,  quite  charac- 
teristic of  the  Americans,  and  is  very  speedily  adopted 
by  the  immigrants  who  come  here.  By  a  queer  system 
of  economics  a  fire  is  usually  regarded  by  irresponsible 
people  as  ''a  good  thing,"  either  because  it  gets  rid  of 
some  undesirable  building  or  because  it  ''gives  some  poor 
man  a  job  "  in  erecting  a  new  structure.  And  in  New  York 
the  majority  of  the  fires  are  directly  due  to  the  irrespon- 
sibles. 

Fifty  per  cent  of  the  fires  originate  in  the  tenements. 
That  in  itself  is  significant.  Those  who  have  little  or 
nothing  to  lose  are  generally  easy  in  their  minds  about 
other  people's  losses.  What  difference  does  it  make 
to  them  if  they  go  out  of  an  evening  leaving  a  red-hot 
stove  to  take  care  of  itself ;  or  whether  a  festival  candle  is 
placed  in  a  candle-stick  or  on  a  straw  bed  where  it  is 
almost  sure  to  fall  over  and  cause  a  conflagration?  In 
any  event  they  will  not  lose  much.  The  landlord,  whom 
they  usually  detest,  will  have  to  pay.  The  almost  in- 
credible tale  is  told  that  during  a  recent  feast  in  one  of 


286  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

the  East  Side  quarters  nearly  forty  alarms  of  fire  were 
sent  in  in  a  single  afternoon.  The  carelessness  suggested 
by  such  a  story  is  simply  astounding. 

But  New  York  is  held  responsible  for  the  acts  of  its 
masses  —  foreign  as  well  as  native  —  and  has  to  be  pre- 
pared for  the  foolishness  or  the  recklessness  of  its  citizens. 
Hence  the  ever  ready  fire  department,  and  hence  the  hurry 
and  the  speed  of  it.  It  is  all  loss,  —  money  and  effort 
thrown  out  to  stop  greater  loss,  —  and  perhaps  the  only 
phase  of  it  that  is  at  all  compensating  is  the  picturesque 
look  and  the  heroic  act.  These  are  at  times  thrilling,  en- 
nobling, almost  inspiring. 

There  is  something  in  an  alarm  of  fire  —  the  clang  of 
the  gongs,  the  whistle  of  the  engines,  the  clatter  of 
horses'  feet  on  the  pavement,  the  rumble  of  the  wheels  — 
that  gives  one  a  thrill.  People  drop  their  work  and  crowd 
to  the  window  or  the  door  to  see  the  engines  go  by. 
Everybody  knows  that  hollow  fire-whistle.  The  trucks 
and  cabs  crowd  up  to  the  curbs  and  stand  still,  the  foot- 
passengers  keep  on  the  sidewalks,  the  street  cars  stop. 
A  fire-engine  always  has  the  right  of  way.  The  horses  as 
well  as  the  drivers  know  that  they  are  to  have  a  clear 
track  and,  though  they  are  prepared  for  unwieldy  vehicles 
that  occasionally  block  their  path,  they  bowl  along  at 
great  speed.  It  is  a  picturesque  if  common  sight  in  the 
city,  —  this  sweep  through  the  streets  of  a  flashing  fire- 
engine,  traihng  a  huge  black  streamer  of  smoke  behind  it, 


Pl.  ()4.  —  Site  of  the  New  Municipal  Building 


CITY  GUARDIANS  287 

whistling  and  clanging,  its  powerful  horses  galloping; 
and  after  it  hose  wagons,  long  hook-and-ladder  trucks, 
with  firemen  perhaps  hastily  putting  on  rubber  coats  in 
preparation  for  action  while  moving  toward  the  fire.  The 
swiftness  of  it,  the  swirl  of  the  huge  trucks  around  the 
corners,  the  occasional  skidding  on  the  wet  pavements,  are 
exciting.  Even  the  disappearance  down  an  avenue  or  side 
street  leaves  behind  a  wonder  in  the  air.  Strangers  turn 
to  ask  each  other  the  whereabouts  of  the  fire.  Everyone 
is  interested.  No  matter  how  familiar  the  sight,  it  always 
produces  a  thrill. 

The  excitement  increases  as  one  nears  the  fire  itself. 
The  police  have  perhaps  already  made  a  cordon  around  it, 
and  have  the  curious  pushed  back  out  of  the  way.  En- 
gines on  the  side  streets  are  spouting  smoke,  hose  carriages 
are  running  out  lengths  of  hose,  ladders  are  going  up 
against  the  walls,  water  towers  are  being  elevated.  There 
is  water  in  a  few  minutes,  pounding  through  the  hose  and 
playing  on  the  flames,  which  are  possibly  already  leaping 
high  in  air.  Stream  after  stream  is  brought  to  bear  from 
different  sides,  from  neighboring  houses,  from  the  roof,  or 
through  the  windows.  There  is  the  continual  crash  of 
glass,  of  falling  floors,  of  crumbling  walls,  with  the  roar 
of  the  flames,  the  swish  of  water,  the  shouts  of  the  mob 
and  the  men. 

And  always  danger  for  the  flremen.  No  one  knows 
when  or  how  it  may  develop.    The  pent-up  gas  within  the 


288  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

building  may  blow  out  the  walls  and  bury  a  whole  ladder- 
ful;  the  men  may  be  overcome  and  suffocated  by  smoke, 
even  though  crawling  along  the  floor  for  air  and  following 
the  fire  hose  out;  they  may  be  caught  in  the  dreaded 
back-draft  and  singed  almost  to  a  cinder  before  it  passes. 
These  are  just  the  usual  risks  of  the  New  York  fireman  and 
are  accepted  as  a  matter  of  course.  But  occasionally 
there  arises  for  him  a  more  direful  emergency  —  the 
necessity  of  risking  his  life  to  save  others.  And  here  the 
fireman  is  not  only  a  superb  life-saver  but  frequently  a 
self-sacrificing  hero  in  the  bargain. 

Often  enough,  the  man  or  woman  at  the  window  or 
on  the  roof  top,  cut  off  by  the  flames,  appeahng  to  be 
saved,  is  economically  not  worth  the  saving;  often  the 
crippled  or  the  bed-ridden  overlooked  in  the  hurried  flight 
and  left  behind  in  the  house  are,  economically  again, 
not  worth  risking  young  lives  for ;  but  no  thought  of  that 
sort  enters  the  fireman's  mind.  All  alike  are  human  to 
him  and  he  must  save  them.  Extension  ladders  go  up, 
scaHng  ladders  carry  the  men  from  story  to  story,  window 
ledges  and  cornices  are  crept  along,  rooms  black  with 
smoke  are  traversed,  the  helpless  are  brought  out  and 
lowered  to  safety,  and  perhaps,  as  the  walls  fall  in,  the 
firemen  drop  into  the  safety-nets  more  dead  than  alive. 
It  is  a  common  story. 

Still  more  wonderful  are  the  rescues  made  by  firemen  of 
their  companions.     Perhaps  the  more  adventurous  have 


CITY  GUARDIANS  289 

been  caught  on  the  roof,  or  have  been  overcome  by  smoke 
in  rooms,  or  have  fallen  with  the  collapse  of  a  floor  into  the 
cellar,  where,  unconscious,  they  are  drowning  in  pools  of 
water.  The  tales  told  of  these  rescues  —  of  human 
bridge  building,  of  swinging  from  window  to  window,  of 
creeping  along  lead  pipes,  of  leaps  for  life  —  are  almost 
unbelievable  in  their  details.*  The  things  that  once  took 
place  only  in  romantic  fiction  are  now  and  here  being 
outdone  in  fact. 

New  York  has  good  reason  to  be  proud  of  its  policemen 
and  its  firemen.  There  are  no  deeds  of  heroism  more 
heroic  than  theirs;  and  yet,  within  the  ranks,  risk  and 
danger  are  considered  merely  matters  of  service.  Such 
service  is  not  so  common,  however,  that  it  escapes  notice. 
Almost  everyone  is  led  to  reflect  at  times  upon  the  model 
municipality  that  New  York  might  be  were  all  the  branches 
of  its  government  as  devoted  to  duty  as  the  departments 
of  Fire  and  Police. 

*  See  "Heroes  who  Fight  Fire,"  by  Jacob  Riis,  in  The  Century  Maga- 
zine, Vol.  55,  p.  483. 


THE   BRIDGES 


Pl.  XVII.-     HIGH    BRIDGE,    HARLEM    RIVER 


5I3VI5T     W'HIVIAM      •^nniM.q     HOIH  IIV'V      I'-I 


*v* 


<f 


■R 


'H.^ 


tO 


11 


CHAPTER  XVII 

THE    BRIDGES 

Wherever  a  crowd  gathers,  whether  about  a  fight  or  a 
fire,  a  rescue  or  an  accident,  there  you  will  find  the  blue- 
coated  poHceman.  Pie  is  usually  at  the  focal  point  of  inter- 
est, wherever  and  whatever  that  may  be.  He  has  to  uphold 
and  preserve  the  majesty  of  the  law;  and,  incidentally, 
he  has  to  make  the  crowd  '^move  on  "  or  "stand  back." 
This  he  usually  succeeds  in  doing  without  force  or  display 
of  any  kind.  Of  course,  if  word  is  passed  along  the  line  to 
"clear  the  square,"  at  an  open-air  meeting  of  the  Reds,  for 
instance,  he  and  his  companions  do  it  very  expeditiously 
and  conclusively.  His  force  is  a  persuasive  one.  And 
the  mob,  whether  guilty  or  innocent  of  any  misdemeanor, 
knows  enough  to  keep  out  of  the  way  of  his  locust  stick.  It 
is  a  very  hard  club.  The  end  of  it  thrust  into  a  running 
back  is  quite  as  effective  as  the  length  of  it  laid  on  a 
stubborn  head. 

And  what  crowds  to  cope  with  there  are  in  New  York  ! 
The  city  seems  always  alive  with  people.  On  New  Year's 
nights  the  sidewalks  overflow  into  the  streets,  and  the  great 
thoroughfares  like  Broadway  turn  into  torrents  of  shouting, 

293 


294  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

horn-blowing,  confetti-throwing  people.  On  Easter  Day 
or  Labor  Day  or  the  Fourth  of  July  there  is  a  similar  empty- 
ing of  the  houses  into  the  streets.  People  are  always 
wilHng  to  go  out  'Ho  see  something,"  and  when  out  they 
are  easily  drawn  into  and  help  swell  a  crowd.  Everyone 
knows  how  they  gather  from  all  points  of  the  compass  in  a 
pubUc  square  to  hear  some  agitator  or  politician  speaking 
from  a  cart  tail,  or  how  they  flock  to  'Hhe  game"  at  the 
Polo  Grounds,  thirty  thousand  or  more,  and  spend  half  a 
day  perched  contentedly  on  benches,  banks,  bridges,  and 
distant  housetops. 

The  largest  gatherings  are  seen  only  at  political  or 
military  parades  or  at  some  important  public  function. 
The  Dewey  Celebration  and  its  like,  the  processions 
preceding  national  elections,  even  the  fire  and  poHce 
parades,  bring  out  vast  numbers  of  spectators.  The 
people  of  the  East  and  West  Sides  come  flocking  through 
the  side  streets  to  Fifth  Avenue,  where  they  occupy  the 
stoops,  climb  railings,  windows,  trees,  lamp-posts,  to  get 
a  sight  of  what  is  moving.  The  processions  themselves 
are  often  enormous  aggregations  of  individuals.  In 
December,  1905,  there  was  a  Jewish  parade  (a  protest 
against  the  massacres  of  Jews  in  Russia)  that  is  said  to  have 
contained  125,000  people.  It  took  the  better  part  of  the 
day  in  passing  a  given  point.  Such  crowds  are  hardly  to 
be  imagined.  And  when  seen,  the  wonder  is  where  the 
people  come  from,  and  how  they  are  housed  and  fed. 


~^««>-n-^'  "^-^ 


THE   BRIDGES  295 

If  one  is  whimsically  inclined,  he  may  even  wonder  as  to 
who  made  all  the  thousands  of  Derby  hats  that  are  every- 
where in  sight.  Seen  from  a  window  or  a  balcony  of  a 
sky-scraper  the  whole  avenue  looks  paved  with  black  hats. 

But  even  on  days  and  nights  devoid  of  holiday  signifi- 
cance the  streets  are  full  of  people.  There  are  certain 
places  that  are  always  congested.  These  are  the  main- 
traveled  thoroughfares,  the  principal  avenues,  the  larger 
cross-streets,  the  railway  stations,  the  subway  and  ferry 
entrances,  —  above  all,  the  bridge  entrances.  The  number 
of  people  that  daily  pass  between  Manhattan  and  Long 
Island  by  the  bridges  is  something  extraordinary.  There 
are  nearly  5000  trolley  cars  a  day  moving  on  the  Brooklyn 
Bridge  alone,  and  they  are  generally  ''full  up"  with 
passengers.  A  moderate  estimate  gives  200,000  people  a 
day  passing  over  this  bridge,  and  in  1907  it  ran  for  a  single 
day  as  high  as  423,000  people.  The  Williamsburgh 
Bridge,  formally  opened  last  year,  though  used  since  1903, 
accommodates  over  200,000  a  day ;  while  the  Queensboro, 
opened  this  year  (1909),  with  a  capacity  of  several  hun- 
dred thousand,  and  the  Manhattan,  now  being  finished, 
with  an  estimated  capacity  of  over  half  a  million  a  day, 
give  an  idea  of  the  city's  present  needs.  A  million  people 
a  day  moving  across  the  East  River  bridges  is  perhaps 
a  maximum  estimate,  but  not  an  extravagant  one.  No 
wonder  the  bridges  were  built  of  colossal  proportions. 

Our  foreign  friends  who  smile    at    our    love   of   "big- 


296  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

ness"  as  exemplified  in  bridges  and  buildings,  fail  to 
take  into  consideration  the  actual  demand,  the  necessity 
of  the  hour.  They  know  nothing  about  bridge  ''jams," 
and  a  million  people  a  day  moving  across  a  wide  and 
swift  river  has  little  meaning  for  them.  As  for  bridges 
themselves  they  know  the  common  types  such  as  London 
Bridge  and  the  Pont  Neuf.  These  being  sufficiently  large 
and  serviceable  in  their  places,  the  conclusion  is  perhaps 
reached  that  they  would  be  equally  serviceable  anywhere 
else  on  the  globe.  The  measuring  of  the  world  by  a  local 
yardstick  is  a  very  common  failing  of  humanity,  and  one 
that  accounts  for  many  mistakes.  Neither  the  Pont  Neuf 
nor  London  Bridge  would  reach  halfway  across  the  East 
River.  By  comparison  with  what  is  needed  in  New  York, 
and  what  now  exists,  they  are  merely  enlarged  culverts. 
They  could  hardly  accommodate  the  Brooklyn  crowd  that 
goes  on  foot,  to  say  nothing  of  the  teams,  trolleys,  and 
electric  cars.  The  East  River  bridges  are  none  too  large, 
yet  they  are  the  largest  in  the  world.  No  other  city  has 
one  bridge  of  this  scale,  where  New  York  has  four  and  will 
soon  have  more. 

This  being  merely  a  fact  and  not  a  boast,  why  should  we 
not  state  it  whenever  necessary?  Of  course,  we  do  talk 
unnecessarily  and  unceasingly  about  our  ''big"  things, 
even  when  they  have  no  quality  and  mean  nothing  but  a 
row  of  figures ;  yet  there  are  things  of  magnitude  and 
worth  in  the  United  States  that  cannot  be  understood 


THE   BRIDGES  297 

unless  we  deal  in  figures.  For  instance,  the  Canyon  of 
the  Colorado  is  a  slash  in  the  earth  over  a  mile  deep, 
thirteen  miles  in  width,  several  hundred  miles  in  length; 
and  the  slash  is  filled  with  the  most  beautiful  air  and 
color  ever  seen  anywhere  in  the  world.  Why  should  we 
not  tell  the  tale  with  those  figures  and  with  the  superla- 
tive adjective?  How  could  it  be  told  differently?  Just 
so  with  the  stupendous  volume  of  Niagara,  the  great  body 
of  the  fresh-water  lakes,  the  vast  prairies,  the  huge  trees, 
the  giant  forests.  The  very  "bigness"  of  these  things 
is  perhaps  their  telling  quality.  It  gives  them  distinc- 
tion, grandeur,  even  sublimity.  To  talk  about  them  with 
a  mock-modest  air,  as  though  giant  redwoods  grew  on 
every  hillside,  and  Niagaras  roared  in  every  river,  and 
Colorado  canyons  were  after  all  very  common  affairs, 
would  be  absurd.  They  are  world  wonders,  and  why  should 
we  not  say  as  much  without  either  pride  or  humility  ? 

It  is  precisely  so  with  the  four  bridges  across  the  East 
River.  Their  '^ bigness"  is  not  only  a  necessity,  but  it 
is  also  their  commanding  feature.  Mere  bulk,  length, 
weight,  and  height  give  them  grandeur.  No  one  who 
goes  across  them,  or  sees  them  from  the  river,  or  studies 
them  from  some  Manhattan  sky-scraper,  can  fail  to  be 
impressed  by  them.  Yet  even  then,  with  the  mind 
expanded  and  grown  colossal  by  contemplation,  the  true 
measure  of  them  is  perhaps  not  appreciated. 

The  earliest  one,  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  was  opened  for 


298  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

traffic  in  1883,  and  since  then  upwards  of  fifty  million 
people  a  year  have  continuously  passed  over  it  in  cars 
alone.  It  is  one  of  the  most  famous  of  the  suspension 
bridges,  with  stone  towers  272  feet  in  height,  a  central  span 
of  1595  feet,  and  a  lift  above  the  water  of  135  feet.  Its 
total  length  is  5989  feet,  something  over  a  mile.  It  has 
promenades  for  foot-passengers,  two  roadways  for  vehicles, 
and  two  railway  tracks  for  electric  cars. 

Enormous  as  this  bridge  was  when  first  built,  and 
spectacular  as  it  still  appears,  it  is  outdone  in  size  by  the 
Williamsburgh  Bridge,  sometimes  called  '' Bridge  No.  2." 
This  is  another  suspension  affair,  but  of  quite  a  different 
appearance  from  the  first  bridge.  It  has  steel  towers  325 
feet  in  height,  a  central  span  of  1600  feet,  and  a  total 
length  of  7200  feet.  Since  its  opening  it  has  carried  im- 
mense crowds.  When  the  cars  for  it  are  in  running  order 
they  will  transport  200,000  people  a  day  and  in  emer- 
gencies 125,000  people  an  hour.  In  its  118  feet  of  width 
it  has  four  surface  railway  tracks,  two  elevated  tracks, 
two  carriage  ways,  two  promenades,  and  two  bicycle  paths. 

Yet  this  bridge  is  once  more  surpassed  in  size  by  the 
Queensboro  or  Blackwell's  Island  Bridge.  It  is  a  canti- 
lever of  peculiar  design  and  is  regarded  as  an  experiment 
by  some  and  as  an  unsafe  structure  by  others.^    It  has 

'  Expert  engineers  have  reported  that  it  will  not  carry  more  than 
about  half  the  load  contemplated,  that  the  superstructure  of  it  weighs 
twenty-five  per  cent  more  than  it  should,  and  that  it  will  cost  twent}'-five 
per  cent  more  than  was  bargained  for.  In  many  ways  it  seems  the  bridge 
is  not  the  success  that  was  anticipated. 


p-( 


THE   BRIDGES  299 

four  trolley  tracks,  two  elevated  railway  tracks,  besides 
footpaths  and  carriage  ways,  and  its  capacity  is  125,000 
passengers  an  hour.  It  crosses  the  East  River  between 
Fifty-Ninth  Street  and  Long  Island  City  in  three  spans, 
resting  on  Blackwell's  Island  after  the  first  one,  and 
making  a  short  span  across  the  island  itself.  There  are 
six  rather  fine  masonry  piers,  two  on  the  island  and  two  on 
each  river  bank.  The  total  reach  of  the  bridge  is  7636  feet. 
The  distinction  of  being  the  largest  cantilever  in  the  world 
(the  Forth  Bridge  has  a  longer  single  span)  is  perhaps  needed 
to  sustain  an  interest,  for  it  certainly  is  not  beautiful.  It 
seems  cumbrous  and  unnecessarily  heavy. 

In  sheer  weight,  however,  as  in  carrying  capacity,  this 
Queensboro  cantilever  is  exceeded  by  '' Bridge  No.  3," 
or  the  Manhattan  Bridge,  now  nearly  completed.  It  is 
between  the  Brooklyn  and  the  Williamsburgh  bridges, 
and  like  them  is  suspended  on  enormous  ropes  of  steel. 
Each  rope  consists  of  9472  wires,  yq  o^  ^^  i^^ch  in  diameter, 
woven  into  thirty-seven  strands,  with  an  outside  diameter 
of  21^  inches.  These  cables  are  swung  from  steel  towers 
standing  upon  granite  and  concrete  foundations  that  go 
down  to  bed-rock  100  feet  below  the  mean  surface  of 
the  water.  The  towers  are  345  feet  in  height,  the  steel 
in  each  of  them  weighs  some  6250  tons,  and  each  carries  a 
load  of  32,000  tons.  The  anchorage  on  either  shore  to 
which  the  ends  of  the  cables  are  made  fast  is  another  mass 
of  granite  and  concrete,  weighing  something  like  232,000 


300  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

tons.  It  is  calculated  to  resist  a  pull  of,  say,  30,000  tons. 
From  the  main  cables,  carried  by  smaller  suspender 
cables,  is  the  superstructure,  which  in  weight  of  nickel-steel, 
including  the  towers,  amounts  to  42,000  tons.  In  the 
main  span  over  the  river  there  is  10,000  tons,  and  in  each 
shore  span  5000  tons. 

These  figures  suggest  a  bridge  of  not  only  great  weight, 
but  of  huge  size.  It  is  planned  to  be  the  strongest  and 
possibly  the  longest  bridge  in  the  world.  And  this  not 
because  New  York  wants  to  have  the  ''biggest"  structure 
in  all  creation,  paying  ten  or  more  millions  for  that  pre- 
tentious distinction,  but  because  it  needs  a  bridge  that 
will  carry  from  300,000  to  500,000  people  a  day,  and  carry 
most  of  them  during  the  "rush"  hours. ^  It  is  built  to 
stand  great  strain  and  to  accommodate  any  crowd,  however 
large.  To  that  end  there  are  to  be  four  tracks  for  ele- 
vated and  subway  cars,  accommodating  trains  of  eight 
and  ten  cars  each,  four  more  tracks  for  trolleys  and 
surface  cars  on  a  second  floor,  besides  a  roadway  thirty- 
five  feet  wide  and  two  twelve-foot  sidewalks  for  pedes- 
trians. The  main  span  of  the  bridge  is  not  so  long  as  those 
of  the  Brooklyn  and  Williamsburgh  bridges,  being  1470 
feet  to  their  1600;  but  the  approach  from  the  Manhattan 
side  is  1940  feet  and  from  the  Brooklyn  side  4230  feet. 
This  makes  a  total  length  of  9090  feet,  nearly  two  miles. 

^  The  maximum  carrying  capacity  is  given  as  350,000  people  an  hour 
—  175,000  each  way. 


THE   BRIDGES  301 

That  figure,  taken  in  connection  with  its  width  of  120  feet 
(35  feet  wider  than  the  Brooklyn  Bridge),  gives  perhaps 
some  idea  of  this  stupendous  structure  of  steel  swung 
across  the  East  River  as  easily  and  as  hghtly  as  a  spider's 
web  across  a  doorway. 

For,  notwithstanding  its  weight  and  mass,  this  bridge 
does  not  look  heavy.  Apparently  it  has  no  rigidity 
about  it.  It  looks  as  though  it  might  ride  out  a  storm 
by  bending  before  it  or  swaying  with  it.  Its  grace  and 
its  feeling  of  elasticity  come  from  its  fine  bending  lines. 
The  city  planned  for  the  beauty  of  the  structure  as  well 
as  for  its  usefulness.  Mr.  Hastings,  the  architect,  has 
personally  had  its  decoration  on  his  hands  and  con- 
science for  a  long  time.  No  doubt  this  has  meant  much 
in  matters  of  detail.  The  main  beauty  of  the  bridge, 
however,  lies  in  its  lines  —  the  graceful  droop  of  its 
cables  over  its  upright  towers. 

The  Brooklyn  Bridge  also  has  this  grace  of  line  and  deh- 
cate  tracery  against  the  sky.  The  towers  are  well-propor- 
tioned masses  of  masonry,  but  when  built  they  were  de- 
nounced by  many  for  their  pike-staff  plainness.  They 
were  thought  ''ugly"  because  not  ornamented  with  mould- 
ings, or  divided  up  by  stringcourses  of  protruding  stone. 
In  fact,  the  whole  bridge  was  considered  something  of  a 
monstrosity,  and  spoken  of  at  that  time  very  much  as  our 
sky-scrapers  are  scoffed  at  to-day.  But,  fortunately,  the 
bridge  has  existed  long  enough  to  win  over  many  of  those 


302  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

who  thought  it  monstrous ;  and  the  newer  generation  has 
come  to  regard  it  as  one  of  the  city's  most  beautiful 
features.  It  has  grown  gray  in  service,  having  been  used 
twenty-five  years ;  and  is  now  spoken  of  as  ''the  old  Bridge." 
Perhaps  some  of  its  attractiveness  has  come  with  age, 
and  then,  perhaps  again,  it  was  just  as  beautiful  the  day  it 
was  completed,  and  we  have  merely  grown  up  to  it. 

We  shall  fit  ourselves  quickly  to  the  Manhattan  Bridge, 
in  fact,  we  have  done  so  already ;  but  shall  we  ever  come 
to  think  the  Williamsburgh  Bridge  so  graceful  as  the  two 
lower  ones  on  the  river?  Its  cables  fall  in  curves,  but 
they  seem  not  free,  flowing  lines.  There  is  no  illusion  of 
swaying  movement  about  it,  no  delicate  tracery  against 
the  sky.  Instead  there  is  the  feeling  of  uncompromising 
rigidity.  The  steel  towers  look  not  unlike  oil  derricks ; 
and  the  superstructure  suggests  cast-iron  rather  than 
finely  spun  smooth-wrought  steel.  Possibly  the  angular 
lattice  work  of  cross-braces  has  something  to  do  with 
this  stiffness.  Wherever  the  fault  may  lie  the  bridge 
can  hardly  be  considered  a  great  artistic  effort.  It  is 
just  a  useful  bridge,  —  no  more. 

And  what  can  one  say  in  good  report  of  the  Queensboro 
Bridge?  It  is  a  ponderous  affair  of  vertical  eye-bars 
and  girders  that  look  like  enormous  fence  palings  linked 
together,  and  the  marvel  is  how  it  manages  to  maintain 
itself  in  air.  One  wonders  if  it  is  not  likely  at  any  time 
to  shut  up  like  a  jumping-jack,  or  fall  down  Hke  a  house 


THE   BRIDGES  303 

built  of  matches.  The  feeling  of  a  self-sustaining  struc- 
ture, such  as  the  other  bridges  possess,  is  absent ;  and  one 
grows  perhaps  unduly  critical  over  the  choice  of  such  a  pat- 
tern with  the  successful  models  of  the  others  so  close  at 
hand.  When  it  is  properly  painted,  it  may  appear  to 
better  advantage;  and  yet  it  is  difficult  to  see  how  the 
disagreeable  cross-lines  of  its  superstructure  can  ever  be 
smoothed  away  or  painted  out. 

The  aesthetic  quality  of  these  huge  bridges,  it  would 
seem,  must  derive  almost  wholly  from  their  form.  How 
could  ornamental  sculpture  be  used  upon  them,  for  in- 
stance? The  approaches  to  the  Pont  Alexandre  have 
carved  pedestals  and  groups  of  figures  that  are  command- 
ing and  appropriate,  because  the  bridge  is  not  of  a  size 
to  dwarf  them;  but  such  or  similar  work  would  appear 
lost  at  the  approaches  to  any  of  the  East  River  bridges. 
One  has  merely  to  stand  at  the  entrance  to  the  Queensboro 
Bridge  and  look  up  at  it  to  realize  that  sculptural  orna- 
mentation in  connection  with  it  would  be  only  so  much 
labor  in  vain.  It  would  not  be  seen  for  the  bigness  of 
the  bridge  itself.  If  made  of  a  size  to  scale  with  the 
bridge  it  would  probably  be  grandiose,  like  the  Statue 
of  Liberty  on  Bedloe's  Island,  or  monstrous,  like  the  huge 
marbles  of  the  Italian  Decadence.  Besides,  you  cannot 
make  an  ugly  mantel-piece  look  handsome  by  placing 
statuettes  and  bronzes  upon  it.  The  mantel  (and  the 
bridge)  requires  correct  proportions. 


304  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

And  what  could  one  do  with  decorative  patterns  upon 
such  bridges?  Make  the  pattern  of  a  size  corresponding 
to  the  structure  itself,  and  hke  the  sculpture,  it  becomes 
bizarre;  make  it  small,  and,  again,  it  is  ineffective.  A 
fine  moulding,  a  sculptured  band,  a  classic  design  in  steel 
or  stone,  what  could  you  see  of  it  at  the  distance  of  a  mile  ? 
And  a  mile  or  more  away  is  the  proper  distance  to  look 
at  one  of  these  bridges.  From  underneath  you  can  grasp 
nothing  but  the  immense  mass  of  the  structure ;  on  the 
bridge  itself  you  can  see  little  but  hfting  towers,  droop- 
ing cables,  climbing  girders.  You  must  get  far  enough 
away  —  on  another  bridge  or  on  a  sky-scraper  —  to  see 
the  whole  bridge  at  a  glance,  to  get  the  ensemble.  With 
such  necessary  distance  in  between  you  and  the  object 
of  vision,  what  becomes  of  sculptured  groups  or  decora- 
tive patterns?  They  fade  out,  blur  out,  and  are  wholly 
wanting  in  carrying  power. 

One  comes  back  to  insist  that  good  form  is  absolutely 
needful  in  these  colossal  bridges  if  beauty  is  to  be  a  part 
of  them.  It  is  a  matter,  too,  of  outline  beauty,  of  the 
traced  form  against  the  sky.  It  is  in  just  this  respect 
that  the  two  lower  bridges  on  the  river  are  so  satisfactory, 
and  the  two  upper  ones  are  so  faulty.  It  is  the  sweep 
of  the  long  bending  lines  from  tower  to  tower,  so  grateful 
to  the  eye,  that  pleases  us  in  the  one ;  it  is  the  sharp  in- 
terruption of  angle  lines,  so  irritating  to  the  eye,  that 
displeases  us  in  the  other.     And  yet  it  is  possible  that 


H 


THE   BRIDGES  305 

the  good  form  of  the  first  two  might  be  enhanced,  and 
the  harsh  form  of  the  second  two  disguised,  or  at  least 
minimized,  by  still  another  feature.     I  mean  color. 

From  time  out  of  mind,  humanity  seems  to  have  as- 
sociated a  bridge  with  a  road,  and  put  down  the  one  as 
being  as  dirty  and  as  dusty  as  the  other.  Perhaps  that 
is  why  bridges  (especially  if  of  iron  or  steel)  have  always 
been  painted  a  black,  or  gray,  or  drab,  or  dust  color.  But 
why  should  this  tradition  continue  with  structures  that 
are  high  in  air,  above  the  dust  and  dirt,  over  wide  wind- 
swept rivers?  The  painting  of  a  battleship  a  mouldy 
slate  color  in  preparation  for  war,  we  can  understand  is 
a  necessary  disguise ;  but  what  a  delightful  change  when 
the  war  is  over  and  the  ship  returns  to  her  peace  garment 
of  white  with  buff  funnels !  One  wonders  if  a  similar 
change  could  not  be  wrought  in  the  huge  East  River 
bridges  by  painting  them  in  less  dismal  colors.  Varie- 
gated hues  would  probably  not  prove  satisfactory,  and 
not  even  patriotism  could  countenance  an  "arrangement" 
in  red,  white,  and  blue ;  but  a  single  color,  like  buff  or 
rose  or  mauve,  might  add  to  the  picturesque,  and  i^ossibly 
the  architectural,  appearance  of  the  structures. 

In  one  respect,  at  least,  the  bridges  are  quite  right  as 
they  stand.  They  are  in  proper  scale  with  the  new  city. 
Their  approaches  now  reach  down  into  streets  where 
stand  buildings  of  four  and  five  stories,  looking  singu- 
larly  mean   and   small   by   comparison;    but  the   small 


306  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

buildings  are  coming  down  one  by  one,  and  will  eventu- 
ally be  replaced  by  newer  and  higher  ones  which  the 
size  of  the  bridges  anticipates.  The  Brooklyn  Bridge 
in  the  lower  city,  brought  into  close  contact  with  the 
down-town  sky-scrapers,  demonstrates  the  rightness  of 
its  proportions.  The  Singer,  the  Terminal,  the  Metropoh- 
tan  Life,  the  Flatiron,  the  Times  buildings,  all  belong  in 
scale  with  the  East  River  structures.  The  new  bridge 
planned  to  span  the  Hudson  is  to  be  of  the  same  colossal 
character. 

To  feel  the  justness  and  the  appropriateness  of  these 
huge  river-spans  one  should  go  up  to  the  Harlem,  at  the 
north  of  the  city,  and  look  at  the  dozen  or  more  of  small 
bridges  for  streets  and  railways  that  are  placed  there. 
They  seem  to  belong  to  another  city,  an  earher  age,  and 
are  grade-crossings,  so  to  speak  —  little  bridges  twenty 
or  forty  feet  above  the  water,  with  neither  form,  weight, 
nor  color  to  distinguish  them  or  dignify  them.  They 
are  only  waiting  to  be  pulled  down,  to  be  superseded 
by  loftier  and  wider  structures.  The  pattern  of  the 
Harlem  bridge  of  the  future  was  already  in  place  on  the 
river  in  1889,  in  the  Washington  Bridge  with  its  fine 
arches  spanning  510  feet  each,  its  135  feet  of  height,  and 
its  2400  feet  of  length.  It  fits  the  Harlem  River  as  the 
Manhattan  Bridge  the  East  River,  and  is  a  beautiful  struc- 
ture in  every  way. 

Even  High  Bridge  rather  anticipated  the  sky-scraper. 


THE   BRIDGES  307 

It  carries  the  Croton  aqueduct  across  the  Harlem  at  One 
Hundred  and  Seventy-Fifth  Street,  is  116  feet  above  the 
river,  and  has  thirteen  arches  resting  on  solid  granite 
piers.  In  connection  with  the  smooth  water,  the  winding 
driveway  near  by,  and  the  river  banks  covered  with 
foliage,  this  bridge  with  its  repeated  arches  makes  a  very 
effective  picture.  It  seems  to  remind  one  of  something 
out  of  Turner's  sketches,  or  of  bridges  we  have  seen  on 
the  Rhine  or  the  Seine.  The  whole  view  of  bridge  and 
river  and  shore  is  a  sharp  contrast  to  the  East  River 
spans,  with  the  agitated  tide-water  under  them,  and  the 
tugs  and  ferries  forever  in  motion,  —  another  one  of  those 
contrasts  so  frequently  met  with  in  New  York.  No  mod- 
ern city  quite  equals  it  in  glaring  inconsistencies;  but 
let  us  say  also  that  no  city  quite  reaches  up  to  it  in 
varied  phases  of  beauty. 


THE   WATER-WATS 


•< 

UJ 

> 

X 

-) 
> 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

THE   WATER-WAYS 

It  is  matter  of  common  geographic  knowledge  that 
the  borough  of  Manhattan  is  surrounded  by  water ;  that 
the  water  is  furnished  by  the  Hudson,  the  Harlem,  and 
the  East  rivers;  and  that  these  same  rivers  also  make 
channels  through  the  Upper  and  Lower  bays  to  the  sea. 
Three  rivers  would  seem  to  be  a  sufficiently  large  endow- 
ment for  one  city  —  at  least  the  claim  is  large  enough, 
especially  as  two  of  them  are  not  rivers  at  all  —  but,  for 
once,  it  appears  we  have  not  claimed  enough.  A  former 
mayor  of  the  city  ^  assures  us  that  there  are  thirteen 
rivers  emptying  into  New  York  Bay,  not  including  the 
Croton  that  comes  to  us  through  the  water  mains;  and, 
of  course,  they  all  belong  to  the  city,  or  at  any  rate  help 
on  its  commercial  importance  in  one  way  or  another. 

The  figure,  however,  is  somewhat  unfortunate  because 
it  requires  such  a  stretch  of  the  imagination  to  realize  it. 
Presumably  the  Hackensack,  the  Passaic,  and  the  Raritan 
are  included  in  the  thirteen;  but  New  Jersey  would 
certainly  object  to  New  York  claiming  them,  even  though 

*  Hon.  Seth  Low  at  Carnegie  Institute,  Pittsburg,  1904. 
311 


312  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

their  waters  do  flow  seaward  past  Sandy  Hook  —  a  New 
Jersey  sand  spit,  by  the  way.  Presumably,  again,  the 
Bronx  and  the  East  Chester,  with  Newtown  and  Flushing 
creeks,  and  some  of  the  creeks  flowing  into  Jamaica  Bay, 
are  on  the  list.  They  are,  however,  rivers  only  by  cour- 
tesy. The  citizens  who  live  near  them,  and  the  watermen 
who  navigate  them,  no  doubt  enjoy  the  larger  designa- 
tion ;  but  the  titles  are  not  to  be  taken  seriously  —  except 
when  a  proud  New  Yorker  goes  forth  to  make  a  speech 
to  the  people  of  an  inland  city.  Commercially,  the  creeks 
do  not  "launch  a  thousand  ships,"  nor  anywhere  near 
that  number.  They  are  still  in  the  creek  stage  of  com- 
merce as  of  water.  New  York  really  has  only  one  river, 
but  that  one  is  "the  lordly  Hudson,"  —  a  sufficient  water- 
way for  any  city,  however  large. 

The  East  River  is  merely  a  tide-arm  connecting  New 
York  Bay  with  Long  Island  Sound,  but  it  flows  between 
Manhattan  and  Brooklyn  and  is  a  very  important  water- 
way. Perhaps  it  is  the  most-traveled  stretch  of  water 
for  its  length  and  breadth  that  the  city  possesses.  It  is 
usually  supposed  to  begin  where  the  Harlem  River  comes 
out;  but,  legally,  it  has  been  decided  that  it  starts  near 
Throggs  Neck,  some  ten  miles  farther  up,  where  the  tide- 
waters of  Bay  and  Sound  meet.  It  practically  ends  at 
the  Battery  twenty  miles  below.  There,  at  ebb  tide, 
it  goes  bumping  into  Governor's  Island,  and  is  shunted 
around  the  western  end  of  the  island  into  the  waters  of 


THE   WATER-WAYS  313 

the  Upper  Bay.  A  small  part  of  it  passes  through  But- 
termilk Channel  —  a  narrow  reach  of  water  between  the 
island  and  lower  Brooklyn,  through  which  came  small 
boats  loaded  with  Long  Island  buttermilk  in  the  ancient 
days,  and  across  which  the  cattle  used  to  wade  at  low  tide. 

From  start  to  finish  the  East  River  is  a  rapid  stream. 
Even  down  near  Wall  Street  or  South  Ferry,  it  goes  by 
with  a  twisting,  swirUng  current  that  makes  the  tugs 
wheeze  and  snort  in  pushing  a  ship  or  schooner  into  dock. 
The  ferry-boats  to  Brooklyn  that  still  ply  backward  and 
forward  (more  from  force  of  habit  than  as  a  paying  indus- 
try since  the  tunnels  have  been  opened)  have  their  wor- 
ries with  this  same  current,  heading  up  well  against  it, 
coming  into  the  sUp  diagonally,  and  often  with  a  heavy 
jar  against  the  pilings.  When  wind  and  tide  are  dead 
ahead  there  is  a  great  deal  of  effort  on  the  part  of  craft 
for  little  progress.  The  surface  is  hardly  ever  smooth 
except  at  flood  tide.  Little  eddies  and  tide-rips,  with 
geyser-like  currents  that  occasionally  seem  to  boil  up 
from  below,  are  frequent.  Besides,  there  is  the  night- 
and-day  churn  of  tugs  and  wash  of  steamers,  with  rolling 
swells  that  swash  against  the  pier  heads,  rush  through 
the  pilings,  and  keep  the  Uttle  craft  within  the  shps, 
pitching,  rolling,  dancing. 

Under  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  as  one  looks  down  on  the 
surface  there  is  the  same  uneasy  flashing  water.  And 
it  is  darker  in  hue  than  that  which  flows  in  the  Hudson. 


314  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

Presumably,  this  is  due  to  the  greater  admixture  of  salt 
water  coming,  more  or  less  directly,  from  the  sea  or  the 
Sound.  Salt  water  is  always  deeper  in  tone  than  that 
which  is  fresh  or  merely  brackish.  And  yet  the  East  River 
is  not  a  sea-blue  or  a  sea-green,  except  in  the  wake  of  a 
steamer.  From  the  bridges  looking  straight  down  one 
gets  its  local  hue  in  a  dark  slate  or  olive  color,  with  some- 
times a  blue-steel  hue,  something  more  Uke  the  water  of 
the  Black  Sea  than  that  of  the  near-by  Sound.  The 
Hudson,  too,  has  a  deep  tone  to  it  under  certain  lights; 
but  with  full  sunlight  there  is  in  it  a  pronounced  jade- 
color  —  an  indefinable  gray-green  peculiar  to  harbor 
waters  that  are  half  fresh  and  half  salt. 

Above  the  Manhattan  Bridge  at  Wallabout  Bay  ^  there 
is  a  sharp  turn  of  the  river  as  though  the  stream  had  tried 
for  a  passage-way  through  at  that  point,  and  had  finally 
given  up  in  disgust,  pitching  off  to  the  southwest  on 
another  tack.  At  Blackwell's  Island  it  is  spUt  in  two 
and  the  divided  waters  pass  on  either  side,  the  main-trav- 
eled channel  being  along  the  Manhattan  shore.  Farther 
up  at  Hell  Gate  comes  a  clash  and  a  turmoil,  for  here  the 
river  makes  a  quick  bend  with  Ward's  Island,  Astoria, 
and  Manhattan  all  pushing  it  different  ways.  It  was 
considered  a  dangerous  place  for  navigators  previous  to 

^  The  name  is  Dutch  and  refers  to  the  bend  in  the  river.  The  Walloons 
are  said  to  have  settled  there  in  1624.  Afterwards  the  Bay  held  the 
British  prison-ships,  as  to-day  the  lower  end  of  it  the  ships  of  the  Brookl3Ti 
Navy  Yard. 


THE  WATER-WAYS  315 

the  blasting  operations  of  1876.  Certain  projecting 
rocks  in  the  channel  made  eddies  and  counter-currents 
that  often  proved  disastrous  to  small  craft.  There  were 
further  blastings  at  Flood  Rock  in  1885;  but  though  the 
channel  is  now  comparatively  free  of  ledges  there  is  still 
an  angry  twist  and  boil  of  the  elements  thereabouts.  It  is 
the  meeting-place  of  several  waters,  and  a  struggle  for 
right  of  way  is  the  natural  consequence. 

Here,  where  the  Harlem  joins  and  Little  Hell  Gate, 
above  Ward's  Island,  cuts  through,  would  seem  to  be  the 
beginning  (or  the  ending)  of  the  East  River.  Just  above 
there  is  a  widening  of  the  channel  preparatory  to  the 
river's  disappearance  in  the  Sound  itself,  and  many  islands 
—  Randall's,  Riker's,  and  North  and  South  Brother  —  ap- 
pear. It  is  quite  apparent  that  this  is  really  a  bay  of 
the  Sound  and  not  a  part  of  the  narrow  strait.  Beyond 
Throggs  Neck  and  Willetts  Point,  however,  there  is  no 
possible  room  for  further  doubt.  The  hmits  of  New 
York  City  are  left  behind  and  the  Sound  is  ahead  —  the 
Sound  where  the  great  passenger  boats  go  whistling 
hoarsely  through  the  fog  up  to  Fall  River,  where  the 
yachts  go  cruising,  and  the  coasting  schooners  come 
laden,  and  the  brave  winds  blow,  blow  high,  blow  low, 
from  Pelham  Bay  to  Newfoundland  Banks. 

The  Harlem,  which  comes  out  at  Hell  Gate,  is  a  very 
tame  affair  after  the  deep  swift  water  of  the  East  River. 
It  is  a  small  mouth  of  the  Hudson  and  is  not  unlike  some 


316  THE   NEW   NEW    YORK 

placid  little  country  stream  —  shallow  in  places,  slow  of 
motion,  low  of  shore,  and  somewhat  dirty  of  hue.  It 
does  not  boil  or  seethe.  Usually  its  surface  is  flat  and 
reflects  very  beautifully  the  evening  skies  over  Fort 
George.  No  large  sailing  craft  infest  it,  no  ocean  liners 
churn  up  its  mud,  no  long  docks  push  out  from  its  shores. 
In  their  place  one  finds  a  superabundance  of  small  piers 
and  docks,  with  oyster  boats,  fishing  smacks,  catboats, 
and  many  boat-houses  that  are  headquarters  for  rowing 
clubs.  It  is  a  famous  stream  for  small  craft  to  anchor 
in  or  dry-dock,  and  also  a  stream  where  the  artist  in 
search  of  the  small  picturesque  finds  ready  material. 

There  is  substantial  traffic  on  the  Harlem,  too  (in  the 
aggregate  it  is  considerable) ;  but  it  is  not  precisely 
representative  of  New  York  commerce.  It  is  the  old 
New  York  we  see  there,  not  the  new;  and  the  general 
impression  one  gains  is  that  the  locality  has  not  kept  pace 
with  other  portions  of  the  island.  New  York,  like  every 
other  advancing  city,  pushes  its  small  buildings,  factories, 
and  bridges  ahead  of  it.  Just  at  present  they  seem  to 
be  enjoying  a  momentary  rest  on  the  banks  of  the  Harlem. 
Eventually  they  will  be  pushed  over  the  stream  or  de- 
molished to  make  room  for  larger  things.  As  for  the 
stream  itself,  it  is  only  a  bogus  little  river,  though  it  may 
some  day,  by  dredging,  become  a  great  thoroughfare. 

But  the  river  of  which  New  York  is  the  proudest  is 
the  Hudson.    What  a  stream  it  must  have  been  when 


THE   WATER-WAYS  317 

the  Half  Moon  first  dropped  anchor  in  its  waters !  Its 
discoverer  found  it  so  broad  —  this  Groot  Riviere  — 
that  he  could  not  but  beheve  it  the  long-sought  passage- 
way to  the  Indies.  He  followed  it  to  Troy  before  he  was 
convinced  that  it  was  only  a  river  of  the  New  World.  In 
those  days  the  primeval  forests  grew  down  to  the  water's 
edge  even  on  the  island  of  Manhattan ;  the  Catskills  and 
the  Adirondacks  were  true  enough  wildernesses,  and  the 
Indian  routes  to  the  north  were  chiefly  by  the  water-ways. 
Perhaps  the  rainfall  in  the  summer  and  the  snowfall  in 
the  winter  were  greater:  perhaps  they  were  held  longer 
under  the  mosses  and  the  shadows  of  the  vast  forests,  and 
the  stage  of  water  in  the  tributary  streams  was  more 
evenly  maintained.  In  consequence  the  river  was,  no 
doubt,  wider  and  deeper  then  than  now,  and  its  waters 
moved  more  calmly,  without  sound  or  breaking  rapids, 
in  a  mighty  flood,  from  the  mountains  to  the  sea.  What 
a  majestic  river  it  must  have  been ! 

And  how  crystal  clear  the  waters!  In  that  early 
time  there  were  no  lands  broken  by  the  plough  to  muddy 
the  small  streams,  there  were  no  huge  water-sheds  of 
charred  timber-stumpage  and  denuded  ground  to  darken 
the  brooks  and  discolor  the  lakes,  there  were  no  towns 
or  cities  to  drain  into  the  river  or  pollute  it  with  factories 
or  litter  it  with  street  refuse.  Not  even  commerce  stirred 
its  silts  or  washed  its  shores.  Its  waters  were  ''unvexed 
by  any  keel,"  its  banks  were  unslashed  by  railways,  its 


318  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

mountain  walls  were  unblasted  by  quarrymen.  Nature, 
not  commerce,  reigned ;  and  the  river  belonged  as  wholly 
and  completely  to  the  former  then  as  to  the  latter  now. 
What  a  marvel  of  purity  it  must  have  been !  What  a 
splendid   sweep   of  translucent  waters ! 

It  is  still  a  majestic  river.  At  ebb  tide,  deep  and  strong 
and  nearly  as  wide  again  as  the  East  River,  it  comes 
down  by  the  Palisades,  down  by  the  Riverside  Drive, 
down  by  the  city  wharfs  and  docks,  an  unconquered, 
uncontrolled  force.  What  sublimity  in  its  volume ! 
W^hat  dignity  in  its  measured  movement !  Without 
twist  or  turn  into  indentation  or  bayou  it  moves  serenely 
on.  In  the  Upper  Bay  much  of  it  spreads  out  and  is 
disintegrated  by  the  tides.  It  loses  its  riverine  char- 
acter ;  it  becomes  a  part  of  the  Bay  and  eventually  floods 
out  through  the  Narrows,  through  the  Main,  the  Swash, 
and  the  Ambrose  channels,  out  to  the  distant  ocean. 

What  philosopher  or  theologian  was  it  that  discovered 
a  special  providence  in  every  great  city  being  furnished 
with  a  great  river  at  its  doorstep  for  a  water  supply  ?  If 
we  allow  this  amusing  exchange  of  place  in  the  proverbial 
cart-and-horse,  we  may  conclude  that  New  York  was, 
indeed,  fortunate  in  its  Hudson.  And,  since  civilization 
and  commerce  were  destined  to  follow  the  discovery  of 
the  New  World,  possibly  the  Hudson  was  fortunate  in 
its  New  York.  The  less  philosophical  and  the  more 
sceptical  may,  however^  see  in  the  conjunction  something 


Pl.  69.  — The  Lower  Hudson  from  Singer  Tower 


THE   WATER-WAYS  319 

that  inevitably  ''happened."  Such  a  river  and  harbor 
were  destined  to  have  just  such  a  city.  Both  river  and 
city  are  ahke  in  scale;  and,  in  some  respects,  not  unlike 
in  nature.  The  breadth  and  the  length  of  the  one  are  the 
height  and  the  reach  of  the  other.  The  very  swirl  of 
the  stream,  and  the  worry  of  the  waters  about  docks  and 
piers  and  bridges,  seem  to  repeat  the  fret  of  the  street 
and  the  uneasy  movement  of  its  long  lines  of  people. 
And  again,  the  ceaseless  come  and  go  of  current  and  tide, 
with  all  the  power  and  the  push  of  them,  are  once  more 
suggested  in  the  energy  of  the  city  that  never  rests  save 
for  the  momentary  lull  betwixt  ebb  and  flow.  They 
complement  each  other  —  the  river  and  the  town. 

The  city  is  more  fortunate  in  its  water-ways  than  per- 
haps many  of  us  imagine.  Of  course,  its  commercial 
up-building  has  derived  from  its  harbor,  but  how  many  of 
us  realize  that  much  of  its  beauty  and  grandeur  come 
from  the  surrounding  waters?  I  mean  now  not  only  that 
picturesque  beauty  that  derives  from  sea  hazes  and 
mists,  from  water-reflections  upon  wall  and  tower,  with 
that  wonderful  blend  of  color  known  only  to  island  cities ; 
but  the  imposing  appearance  of  the  city  as  a  whole,  as  you 
approach  it  from  the  water.  If  the  city  were  flung  down 
upon  a  fiat  piece  of  ground  and  the  only  approach  to  it 
were  by  railway,  how  much  of  an  impression  would  it 
make?  And  who  would  marvel  over  the  line  or  light  or 
color  of  the  down-town  mountain  ridge?     If  our  foreign 


320  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

acquaintance  came  to  the  city  by  way  of  Harlem  and  the 
Bronx,  rather  than  by  Sandy  Hook,  would  they  be 
shocked  or  grieved  or  astonished  or  deUghted  at  the  first 
appearance  of  the  city?  The  water  approach  to  New 
York  is  more  than  a  commercial  asset:  it  is  a  superb 
avenue  leading  up  to  the  temple. 

It  is  not  possible  to  reach  Manhattan  without  crossing 
water  —  either  above  it  or  below  it.  This  is,  no  doubt, 
something  of  a  bother  and  a  nuisance  to  the  commuter  or 
the  business  man.  He  is  always  in  a  hurry  to  ''get  down 
to  the  office,"  and  ferries  and  bridges  take  up  too  much  of 
his  time.  He  much  prefers  the  tunnels  under  the  rivers. 
The  electric  cars  go  through  the  tubes  with  a  rush,  and, 
though  he  sees  nothing  but  the  glitter  of  passing  lights, 
he  gazes  steadily  ahead  of  him  and  thinks  about  business, 
knowing  very  well  that  he  will  "get  there"  in  a  few  min- 
utes. Such  an  approach  is  certainly  practical  and  con- 
venient, but  just  as  certainly  not  pleasurable.  Yet  no 
one  need  lament  the  coming  of  the  tunnels.  They  will 
supersede  the  ferries;  but  the  bridges  will  remain.  The 
approach  from  the  west  may  not  in  the  future  be  made 
by  boats,  but  the  great  bridge,  now  planned  for  the  Hud- 
son, will  be  followed  by  others,  and  the  view  from  them 
two  hundred  feet  in  air  will  be  even  more  imposing. 

It  is  so  now.  What  more  astonishing  approach  could 
one  ask  than  that  from  the  Brooklyn  Bridge?  The 
outlook  to  any  and  every  point  of  the  compass  is  wide 


THE   WATER-WAYS  321 

and  wonderful.  Up  the  river  it  reaches  to  the  Sound 
with  bridges  and  boats  and  towers  and  tall  chimneys  all 
swimming  in  a  purple-blue  haze.  Down  the  river  you 
overlook  the  Battery  and  Governor's  Island,  to  the  Upper 
Bay,  to  the  water-ways  leading  out  by  the  Narrows,  and 
in  the  distance  lost  in  mist,  Staten  Island.  Around  to 
the  northwest  your  eyes  follow  the  Hudson  with  the 
Palisades  beyond ;  and  against  them,  in  partial  silhouette, 
are  seen  the  towers  and  tall  buildings  of  upper  New  York. 

It  is  usually  at  the  city,  however,  that  the  man  on 
the  bridge  looks.  He  watches  the  line  of  sky-scrapers 
grow  from  day  to  day;  he  sees  the  plying  steamers  be- 
neath him,  the  new  work  on  the  docks,  the  moving  lines 
of  trucks  along  the  wharves,  the  peopled  decks  of  the 
ferry-boats.  The  human  interest  is  his.  The  hum  of 
the  hive  over  there  where  the  high  buildings  cluster  the 
closest  comes  to  him  with  a  strange  lure.  He  is  drawn 
toward  it  irresistibly.  The  zeal  of  his  business  hath 
eaten  him  up. 

Yet  he  is  not  indifferent  to  the  broader  outlook.  Ask 
him  questions  and  you  will  find  that  he  has  seen  the  stu- 
pendous beauty  of  the  lower  water-ways  set  with  green 
islands  under  sunset  skies.  He  has  seen  many  times  the 
long  sweep  of  the  rivers  by  the  rounded  shores,  and  the 
far  glitter  of  the  Upper  Bay  flecked  with  steamers,  sails, 
and  hurrying  tugs.  He  knows  the  graceful  lines  of  the 
new  suspension  bridge,  the  charm  of  the  morning  light 

T 


322  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

striking  upon  the  white  walls  of  the  Metropolitan  tower, 
the  wonderful  shadows  cast  by  the  high  buildings  of  the 
lower  city  in  the  evening  light.  He  may  even  see  some 
color  charm  in  the  advertisements  that  roof  the  tenements 
of  the  East  Side.  Perhaps  he  is  more  impressed  by  the 
''bigness"  of  city,  land,  and  sea,  than  by  small  patches 
of  beauty  in  the  scene ;  but  then  who  is  not  ?  Who  can 
fail  of  being  awed  by  such  vast  proportions?  The  man 
on  the  bridge  is  not  so  sadly  out  of  focus.  He  appreci- 
ates what  he  sees  and,  poor  mean  money-grubber  that 
we  may  contemptuously  think  him,  he  may  even  nurse 
dreams  of  the  running  water  and  the  splendid  ship  that 
will  some  day  bear  him  out  to  Europe  or  Far  Cathay,  away 
from  business  and  ''the  Street,"  away  from  the  hum  of 
the  hive,  away  from  the  worry  of  the  money-world. 

Just  so  with  the  commuter  from  New  Jersey  who  is 
rushed  through  the  tube  in  the  morning  but,  perhaps, 
returns  home  by  the  ferry  at  night.  He  can  spare 
more  time  in  the  evening  and  possibly  goes  down  the 
river  from  Twenty-Third  Street  or  up  the  river  to  the 
Erie  or  West  Shore  railroad  station.  The  ride  is  restful, 
and  he  likes  to  sit  out  on  the  deck  and  see  the  distant  city 
in  the  sunset  hght  with  the  window-panes  of  the  sky- 
scrapers flashing  fire,  and  the  high  walls  suffused  with 
pink  and  rose  and  lilac.  He  has  seen  it  many  times  be- 
fore, but  it  is  always  interesting.  It  is  his  city,  and  he  is 
proud  of  it  at  heart,  though  he  sometimes  speaks  slight- 


H 


THE   WATER-WAYS  323 

ingly  of  it.  And  he  never  wearies  of  the  great  river. 
Whether  he  crosses  it  by  ferry,  or  gUdes  down  it  by 
day-boat,  or  pushes  up  it  by  ocean-steamer,  it  is  always 
the  majestic  river  serenely  sweeping  downward  to  the 
sea  —  the  river  that  flows  by  the  first  city  of  the  New 
World,  his  city,  the  great  New  York. 

Quite  as  impressive  as  this  sunset  scene  is  the  Hudson 
by  night  when  the  brilliant  ferry-boats  ply  forward  and 
backward  from  shore  to  shore,  when  a  vast  circle  of  lights 
along  the  water  line  seems  to  surround  one,  reaching  from 
Fort  Lee  to  Gowanus  Bay  —  a  Milky  Way  more  piercing 
than  the  stars  and  set  with  blazing  constellations  of  elec- 
tricity at  many  pier  heads.  All  sorts  of  lights  are  burning 
there,  and  all  sorts  of  colors  are  showing  —  red,  yellow, 
green,  blue,  Ulac.  They  burn  on  boats  and  barges,  on 
docks  and  buoys,  on  mast  heads  and  Liberty  statues,  all 
in  a  far  panorama  flung  around  one  in  a  ring.  The 
thousands  of  lights  high  above  the  water,  ghttering  in 
rows  against  the  eastern  sky,  are  more  obvious  but  still 
somewhat  illusive.  Each  year  the  mass  of  lighted  win- 
dows grows,  until  now  at  night  the  illusion  of  a  city  set 
upon  a  hill  has  become  quite  marked.  The  ridge  of  the 
hill  appears,  of  course,  along  Broadway,  where  the  highest 
sky-scrapers  are  set ;  and  right  in  the  center  of  it  rises  the 
illuminated  tower  of  the  Singer  Building,  blazing  with 
edgings  of  hght,  fretted  with  golden  fire, — a  gigantic 
arabesque  of  electricity  set  against  the  heavens. 


324  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

Down  past  the  lighted  city,  by  flaring  docks  and 
flashing  ferries  that  are  reflected  from  its  broken  surface, 
flows  the  great  river.  By  night  as  by  day,  by  sunlight  or 
moonlight  or  starlight,  it  is  always  beautiful.  Storm 
makes  it  less  agreeable,  as  fog  and  ice  more  dangerous, 
but  its  beauty  is  not  obliterated.  Snow  from  the  north  and 
the  lights  of  the  city  seen  through  it  dimly  and  distantly, 
wind  that  seems  to  drive  the  water  fiercely  down  the  bay 
and  turn  the  ferry-boats  from  their  courses,  waves  blown 
into  whitecaps  by  the  gale  and  driven  with  a  slash  against 
the  pier  heads,  are  often  more  beautiful  than  the  weave 
and  ravel  of  moonlight  on  the  water,  or  the  stars  mirrored 
and  reflected  from  the  blue-black  floor. 

In  all  moods  and  in  all  seasons  the  river  is  the  majestic 
river.  It  is  the  wide  tideway  of  the  city  bearing  the  fleets 
of  passenger  steamers,  the  long  black  hulls  of  commerce, 
the  sails  of  pleasure,  the  despised  lines  of  scows  and 
lighters,  even  the  dredgers  of  commercial  necessity.  As  a 
water  approach  to  a  city  it  has  few  rivals.  It  might  even 
be  doubted  if  it  has  an  equal. 


Pl.  72.  —  The  Harlem 


DOCKS   AND    SHIPS 


v'»       ■"  i^^,,"        ■'"5 


»-    ^^V     « 


PL.  XIX. -NEAR   THE   SHIPPING    DISTRICT 


T015?T2ia    OHJS<4IH2   3HT   ^A3M— .XIX.jT 


CHAPTER  XIX 

DOCKS   AND    SHIPS 

Lest  the  unimaginative  stranger  gain  the  idea  that  the 
island  of  Manhattan  is  only  a  few  acres  of  land  in  a  large 
bay  —  the  ordinary  island  that  one  sees  in  almost  every 
harbor  —  perhaps  it  is  worth  while  saying  that  one  must 
travel  some  thirty  miles  to  circumnavigate  it;  and  lest, 
again,  it  be  thought  that  the  Greater  New  York  is  not  a 
sea  city,  it  may  be  said  that  there  are  five  boroughs  in  it 
and  only  one  of  them  (the  Bronx)  on  the  mainland.  It  is 
a  city  of  islands,  if  we  allow  our  fancy  some  play ;  but  a 
city  sea-worn  rather  than  sea-born.  Venice  with  its 
hundred  islands  was  filled  in,  made  by  deposits  of  river 
silt ;  whereas  New  York  was  cut  out,  hewn  by  the  waters 
from  the  native  rock,  separated  from  the  mainland  by  its 
tideways.  They  are  both  cities  of  the  sea,  but  not  at  all 
alike  either  physically  or  commercially. 

In  fact,  any  comparison  between  Venice  and  New 
York  must  emphasize  the  differences  rather  than  the  like- 
nesses. For  her  hundred  islands  we  have  but  three, 
but  any  one  of  ours  outbulks  all  of  hers  put  together. 
Again,  the  commerce  of  Venice  was  once  considered  very 

327 


328  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

large,  and,  when  the  city  was  'lowering  in  her  pride  of 
place,"  there  were  thirty-five  hundred  sails  in  the  service 
of  the  republic  —  a  goodly  showing  for  the  Mediaeval  Age ; 
but  though  New  York  has  no  great  merchant  marine  of  its 
own,  there  are  twenty  thousand  craft  a  year  that  come  into 
the  port,  and  perhaps  any  thirty-five  of  its  ''tramp" 
steamers  could  carry  all  the  goods  and  chattels  of  the 
Venetian  thirty-five  hundred.  The  seven-mile  circum- 
ference of  the  Venetian  islands,  the  hundred  or  more  canals 
with  their  many  wharves,  seem  again  large  in  capacity; 
but  New  York  has  already  over  four  hundred  miles  of  docks 
and  not  one-half  of  its  available  shores  are  occupied. 
Venice,  past  or  present,  must  be  multipUed  many  times 
to  reach  up  to  New  York;  and  even  Liverpool  with 
its  one  hundred  and  London  with  its  two  hundred 
miles  of  docks  are  out  of  the  reckoning. 

There  is  a  fly  in  the  ointment,  however,  about  these 
docks.  They  are  not  of  stone  like  those  of  London  or 
Liverpool;  they  have  not  the  massiveness  of  the  quais 
of  Havre  nor  even  the  solidity  of  the  fondamenti  of  Venice. 
The  majority  of  them  are  affairs  of  wood,  propped  up  on 
piles  driven  in  the  mud,  and  have  nothing  to  commend 
them  except  their  cheapness  and  their  convenience. 
Their  lengths  and  heights  vary  considerably ;  some  have 
sheds  upon  them  and  some  have  nothing  at  all;  and 
their  state  of  neglect  or  repair  varies  also. 

The  new  docks  of  the  Chelsea  Improvement  have  two- 


DOCKS   AND  SHIPS  329 

story  sheds  of  structural  steel,  are  eight  hundred  feet  or 
more  in  length,  and  are,  all  told,  great  improvements  on 
the  old  ones.  The  docks  keep  growing  in  size,  and  extend- 
ing around  the  islands  more  and  more  each  year;  but 
even  so,  the  demand  seems  greater  than  the  supply. 
To  meet  this  demand  there  is  just  now  a  prepared  plan  for 
eight  docks  along  the  Brooklyn  water  front  from  Twenty- 
Eighth  Street  to  Thirty-Sixth  Street,  that  shall  be  from 
twelve  to  eighteen  hundred  feet  in  length.  Besides  this 
there  is  a  great  project  afoot  for  the  utilization  of  Jamaica 
Bay  by  building  docks  on  the  bay  islands,  and  dredging  a 
channel  in  from  the  sea  that  shall  accommodate  the  largest 
steamers.  The  cost  of  it  is  figured  to  be  somewhere  in  the 
fifty  miUions,  and  the  capacity  is  said  to  be  something 
quite  inexpressible  in  figures. 

But  neither  the  new  nor  the  old  docks  are  very  beautiful. 
They  are  quaint  enough  when  old  and  water-worn,  and  in 
connection  with  ships  and  colors  they  make  a  good  back- 
ground for  pictures ;  but  New  York  is  not  very  proud  of 
them  (except  possibly  the  Chelsea  ones)  and  would  rather 
they  did  not  occupy  so  conspicuous  a  place  at  the  city's 
entrance.  Perhaps  there  is  a  similar  feeling  about  the  hfe 
along  these  docks.  And  yet  the  people  by  the  water's 
edge  are  always  unique  in  color  and  movement  if  not  in 
intrinsic  worth.  They  furnish  variety  in  uniformity  — 
the  variety  of  many  nations,  for  all  the  world  gathers 
on  the  New  York  docks. 


330  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

The  early  gathering  place  was  no  doubt  the  lower  end  of 
the  East  River.  The  Battery  (which,  by  the  way,  never 
battered  anything,  at  any  time)  was  the  first  landing- 
place  of  the  Dutch,  and  it  was  the  region  about  South 
Ferry  that  afterward  became  an  anchorage  for  their  flat- 
bottomed,  high-pooped  ships.  After  the  Revolution  the 
large  sailing  craft  that  came  into  the  harbor  required 
deeper  water  to  make  landings;  so  the  shallows  were 
filled  in  from  Front  Street,  the  docks  were  pushed  out  into 
the  stream,  and  South  Street  came  into  existence.  In 
very  recent  years  the  docks  have  been  extended  still 
farther,  and  the  shipping  offices  and  storage  houses  along 
South  Street  are  now  some  distance  back  from  the  pier 
heads.  Some  of  the  old  buildings  with  new  fronts  are 
still  standing ;  and,  even  to-day,  there  are  huge  schooners 
and  square-rigged  ships  lying  at  the  piers  with  bowsprits 
reaching  over  into  the  street.  Some  reminders  of  the  days 
of  cHpper  ships  and  the  China  trade  linger,  but  are  gradu- 
ally being  elbowed  out  of  existence  by  newer  enterprises. 

The  East  River  front  of  Manhattan  is  now  a  strange 
conglomeration  of  docks,  trucks,  shops,  saloons,  and 
warehouses.  Many  commercial  interests  are  centered 
there,  with  many  people  and  much  activity.  Everything 
is  moving  or  being  moved.  At  Coenties  Slip,  as  one 
comes  around  from  South  Ferry,  the  activity  is  not  at  once 
apparent.  There  is  a  little  park  with  bushes  and  trees 
(Jeannette  Park)  near  by,  which  is  usually  well  patronized 


DOCKS   AND   SHIPS  331 

by  the  unemployed ;  and  across  the  street  from  it  there 
are  scores  of  canal-boats  tied  together  in  the  dock,  that 
seem  deserted  and  decadent.  But  a  few  steps  farther  on 
brings  a  change.  Long  piers  run  out  into  the  river  and 
brown-red  sheds  are  alive  with  milling  men  and  pulling 
horses.  Steamers  from  Spain,  Porto  Rico,  Havana, 
Galveston,  ships  from  many  southern  ports,  are  unloading 
or  taking  on  cargo.  The  street  is  a  tangle  of  trucks,  the 
sidewalk  a  turmoil  of  people,  the  shops  a  bustle  of  business. 
Many  of  the  old  buildings  are  occupied  as  shipping  offices, 
storehouses,  or  ship  chandleries.  Anything  needed  on 
shipboard  can  be  bought  in  such  places  —  canvas,  cordage, 
blocks,  packing,  pipes,  tubes,  oils,  paints,  lanterns,  com- 
passes, bells,  swords,  guns.  Food  and  clothing  supplies 
are  near  at  hand ;  and  the  saloon  along  South  Street,  with 
its  modicum  of  cheer,  is  never  ''hull  down"  on  the  horizon. 
When  Jack  or  his  captain  comes  ashore,  there  are  plenty  of 
opportunities  offered  him  to  get  rid  of  his  money  before  he 
reaches  the  Bowery. 

As  one  moves  toward  the  Brooklyn  Bridge  the  interests 
become  more  varied.  The  different  slips  widen  out  to  the 
docks  and  furnish  room  for  many  warehouses  and  shops  in 
low  brick  buildings,  some  of  them  with  gambreled  roofs 
and  dormer  windows.  The  docks  are  piled  high  with  odd- 
looking  boxes,  with  green  and  blue  barrels ;  schooners  and 
ships  are  anchored  beside  car  floats  loaded  with  yellow 
freight-cars ;   ferry-houses  are  near  by  from  which  bright- 


332  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

colored  boats  are  coming  and  going;  tugs  are  pushing 
and  hauling  at  tows ;  steamers  rush  by  with  a  splash  and 
a  swash.  From  the  piers,  looking  up  and  over  the  tangle 
of  trucks,  perhaps  the  stranger  catches  a  glimpse  of  the 
Broadway  sky-scrapers,  resting  serenely  in  the  far  upper 
air  Uke  a  ridge  of  snow  mountains,  quite  unaffected  by  the 
noisy  worry  of  the  water  front.  How  stupendous  in  size, 
how  superb  in  light  and  air  they  seem  by  comparison  with 
the  junk  shops  and  the  dock  sheds !  Perhaps  he  glances 
around  to  the  east,  and  there  sees  the  swooping  span  of 
the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  —  still  another  contrast  between  the 
new  and  the  old.  Possibly  later  on  he  figures  it  out  quietly 
by  himself  that  the  dirty  docks  and  the  greasy  ships  and  the 
noisy  trucks  are  after  all  not  to  be  despised,  for  they  made 
possible  the  beautiful  bridge  and  paid  for  the  immaculate- 
looking  sky-scrapers.  Commerce  foots  the  bill,  abuse  it 
as  we  may. 

South  Street  runs  on  under  the  Brooklyn  Bridge,  past 
Fulton  Market  with  its  fish  stalls  and  tumble-down  shops ; 
past  Peck  Slip  with  its  old  houses;  past  Providence  and 
New  Haven  steamers,  the  Manhattan  Bridge,  the  little 
long  park  at  Rutgers  Slip ;  past  warehouses,  warehouses, 
warehouses.  Scows  are  being  filled  with  city  refuse,  cars 
are  being  unloaded  with  merchandise  at  the  docks,  fac- 
tories and  machine-shops  are  cropping  out  along  the  way, 
gas-houses  and  lumber-yards  begin  to  bulk  large.  Right 
in  the  midst  of  this  region  (formerly  a  haunt  of  thieves) 


Pl.  73.  —  Old  Ships,  South  Street 


DOCKS   AND  SHIPS  333 

comes  another  surprise.  This  is  Corlear's  Park  with  its 
Itahan-looking  loggia  and  its  eight  acres  sloping  down  to 
the  open  river.  There  are  no  piers  or  sheds  here,  and  the 
water  view  is  unobstructed.  Sound  steamers,  sloops, 
schooners,  lighters,  ferry-boats  slip  past  on  the  tide,  up 
and  under  the  Williamsburgh  Bridge ;  and  occasionally  a 
motor-boat  with  its  put-put,  or  some  pleasure  yacht, 
careens  and  pitches  on  its  way.  Off  in  the  background, 
across  the  river,  are  the  battle-ships  that  are  being  repaired 
at  the  Brooklyn  Navy  Yard,  or  the  old  hulks  that  have 
had  their  day  and  are  now  rotting  at  the  dock.  It  is  a 
picturesque  spot  just  here  at  Corlear's  Hook,  where  the 
river  turns  and  where  South  Street  comes  to  an  end. 

The  North  River,  as  the  lower  part  of  the  Hudson  is 
sometimes  called,  was  not  of  much  trade  importance  in  the 
early  days  of  New  York.  There  were  no  docks  along  it  be- 
cause all  the  ships  went  to  South  Street.  Sailing  craft 
came  around  the  Battery  and  went  up  the  Hudson  without 
stopping.  They  were  seen  and  admired  by  the  New 
Yorkers  who  had  residences  on  the  ridge,  for  the  ridge  was 
then  famous  for  the  'View."  So  late  as  1800  old  St.  Paul's, 
Columbia  College,  and  the  Hospital  looked  down  to  the 
river  and  beheld  a  practically  unobstructed  panorama. 
There  was  no  West  Street  then. 

Before  that  time  the  water  front  was  even  more  primi- 
tive. From  Warren  to  Desbrosses  Street  was  the 
"bouwerie"  of  Anneke  Jans,  whose  many  descendants 


334  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

still  dream  of  untold  wealth  coming  to  them  when  the  law 
finally  gives  them  their  due.  On  either  side  of  Canal  Street 
was  Lispenard's  Meadows,  where  almost  anything  could 
be  docked  except  a  ship,  and  where  nothing  was  trucked 
except  loads  of  hay.  Beyond  came  Greenwich  Village 
with  no  vast  commercial  interests,  though  ships  sometimes 
lay  at  anchor  in  the  stream  off  from  it.  After  this  the 
shore  line  as  far  as  Spuyten  Duyvil  Creek  was  unbroken 
and  untrodden  —  Fort  Gansevoort,  which  stood  near  the 
present  market-place,  and  Fort  Washington  at  One 
Hundred  and  Seventy-Fifth  Street,  being  latter-day  works. 

But  a  great  change  has  taken  place  since  the  days  of 
the  Dutch,  or  the  English,  or  even  the  American  occupa- 
tion. Less  than  a  hundred  years  has  transformed  the 
North  River  into  a  water-way  for  the  ships  of  the  world, 
the  meadow  front  is  now  a  broad  street  with  the  unceasing 
reverberation  of  traffic ;  and  the  waters'  edge,  from  the 
Battery  to  the  Riverside  Park,  is  occupied  by  long  piers 
and  sheds  where  ocean  liners  are  docked  and  unloaded. 
The  ocean-carrying  trade  of  New  York  is  now  located 
there.  Practically  all  the  important  fines  of  passenger 
steamers  have  their  docks  there,  or  across  the  river  at 
Hoboken. 

Along  the  Chelsea  region  of  the  North  River,  scat- 
tered like  the  sky-scrapers  on  Broadway,  are  the  huge 
transatlantic  liners  with  sharp  noses  pushing  in  toward 
West  Street.    With  them  and  near  them  are  the  smaller 


Pl.  74. — The  Mauuetania 


DOCKS   AND  SHIPS  335 

steamers  plying  to  Havana,  Mexico,  South  America,  Spain, 
Italy,  Greece;  the  immigrant  steamers  coming  up  from 
Naples,  Palermo,  or  Trieste ;  the  coasting  steamers  from 
New  Orleans,  Galveston,  Boston,  Providence;  the  white 
river  steamers  running  to  Troy  and  Albany.  In  the 
foreign  passenger  trade  alone  there  are  some  three  hundred 
or  more  of  these  craft  coming  and  going  to  this  port; 
and  the  number  of  coasters  that  creep  into  the  harbor  at 
odd  times  and  in  strange  ways  mounts  up  into  the  thou- 
sands. 

The  ''tramps,"  fruit  carriers,  cattle  and  tank  steamers 
are  of  all  kinds  and  descriptions,  come  from  all  over  the 
seven  seas  and  beyond,  and  fly  the  flags  of  every  nation 
having  a  merchant  marine.  Besides  these  there  are  ships 
and  sails  of  old-time  merchants,  perhaps,  that  have 
no  regular  sailings,  casual  ships  with  strange  cargoes  that 
come  up  from  the  underworld  of  China  or  Peru  when  they 
can,  and  go  out  again  with  grain,  iron,  or  coal  for  distant 
seas  when  they  must. 

They  make  graceful  combinations  on  the  water,  with 
their  fine  lines  and  colors,  their  smoke  and  steam,  their 
gliding  motion  —  these  ships  and  sails.  In  fact,  the 
North  River,  with  its  fleet  of  big  and  little  craft  and  its 
many-colored  flags,  funnels,  and  hulls,  makes  a  harbor 
view  more  lively  and  more  imposing  than  Backhuisen  or 
Willem  van  de  Velde  ever  imagined.  Not  the  least  im- 
portant values  in  the  picture  are  the  fore-and-aft  sails  of 


336  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

the  huge  six  and  seven  masted  schooners  or  the  square  sails 
of  barks  or  brigs  or  full-rigged  ships.  Even  the  little  spots 
of  steam  and  color  in  tugs,  fire-boats,  car-floats,  yachts, 
help  out  the  picture  by  giving  it  brilliancy.  When  the  red 
and  green  and  olive  ferries,  the  yellow  revenue-cutters, 
the  blue  canal-boats,  the  white  island-boats,  with  an 
occasional  white  and  buff  war-ship,  are  added  to  the 
scene,  and  the  whole  moving  mass  has  the  towering  lower 
city  at  sunset  for  a  background,  the  color  of  it  becomes 
startling,  bewildering,  quite  dazzling. 

The  piers  on  the  North  River  where  the  big  steamers 
are  warped  in  and  the  little  ones  touch  or  are  unloaded,  are 
at  least  capacious ;  and  capacity  is,  after  all,  an  absolute 
necessity.  Huge  cargoes  have  to  be  handled  upon  them 
in  short  spaces  of  time,  and  many  donkey  engines,  der- 
ricks, and  hoists,  with  scores  and  scores  of  longshoremen, 
are  in  requisition.  Hand  trucks,  horse  trucks,  auto-trucks, 
rumble  here  and  there  with  boxes,  bales,  and  barrels  con- 
taining goods  from  everywhere  —  bananas  from  Jamaica, 
coffee  from  Mexico,  tea  from  China,  wine  from  France, 
macaroni  from  Italy,  spices  from  the  Indies,  sugar  from 
Cuba,  woods  from  Brazil,  pulp  from  Norway,  cloths  from 
England,  cutlery  from  Germany.  This  freight  handling 
is  always  more  or  less  compUcated,  because  the  docks  are 
the  distributing  places  where  goods  are  sorted  over  and 
re-shipped  to  different  points  throughout  the  country. 
Moreover,  for  every  cargo  coming  in  there  is  perhaps  a 


DOCKS   AND  SHIPS  337 

larger  cargo  going  out.  Silks  and  rugs  and  works  of  art 
may  be  arriving  at  one  side  of  the  pier ;  and  beef,  machin- 
ery, shoes,  be  departing  by  the  other  side.  Add  to  this 
foreign  trade,  the  domestic  trade  by  river,  Sound,  and 
shore,  by  railway  and  tramway ;  add  further  the  passenger 
traffic  along  these  piers  from  ferry  and  steamer,  the  come 
and  go  by  car  and  cab  and  carriage,  and  it  can  easily  be 
imagined  that  the  North  River  piers  and  docks  are  places 
of  activity,  centers  of  energy. 

Though  thousands  are  at  work  about  these  piers  and 
are  continually  crossing  each  other's  path,  there  is  usually 
little  confusion.  Everything  moves  systematically  and 
everyone  understands  the  law  of  traffic  in  the  city, — 
keep  to  the  right  and  keep  moving.  In  and  out  of  these 
pier  sheds  all  day  (and  sometimes  all  night),  people,  trucks, 
and  carts  move  in  files,  loading  and  unloading,  passing 
and  repassing.  West  Street  receives  them  and  rejects 
them  and  receives  them  again.  The  wide  thoroughfare 
seems  always  in  an  uproar  (except  on  Sunday) ;  and,  of 
course,  traffic  occasionally  gets  into  a  tangle. 

This  is  not  to  be  wondered  at,  for  the  mass  and  the  mix 
of  West  Street  are  something  quite  out  of  the  ordinary. 
It  {^facile  princeps  the  street  of  trucks  in  the  whole  city. 
Every  conceivable  kind  of  a  vehicle — dray,  express-wagon, 
mail-wagon,  furniture-van,  butcher-cart,  garbage-cart, 
beer-skid,  beam-reach  —  is  there.  Sandwiched  in  among 
them  or  dashing  across  them  are  cabs,  carriages,  hansoms, 


338  THE   NEW   NEW    YORK 

automobiles.  Dozens  of  trolley  cars  run  across  this  street 
to  the  different  ferry-houses ;  two  car  tracks  run  the  full 
length  of  it,  and  down  these  tracks,  perhaps  in  the  busiest 
portion  of  the  day,  will  come  a  long  train  of  freight-cars  of 
the  New  York  Central  Railroad.  Such  a  hurly-burly  of 
traffic  naturally  produces  the  ''jam"  which  sometimes  re- 
quires the  services  of  the  police  to  straighten  out. 

The  dock  side  of  West  Street  is  laid  with  asphalt,  but 
the  street  proper,  where  the  trucks  and  trolleys  go,  is 
paved  with  stone  blocks  —  Belgian  blocks.  The  jar  and 
jolt,  the  shock  and  rumble,  arising  from  these  stones  is  not 
pleasant.  No  one  can  hear  himself  talk  during  traffic  hours, 
except  the  cabbies  and  the  truck  drivers.  Even  they  are 
usually  purple  in  the  face  from  trying  to  outroar  the  rumble, 
though  sometimes  they  get  blue  and  green  with  wrath  when 
a  colUsion  takes  place,  and  they  exchange  compHments 
about  each  other's  driving. 

The  human  voice,  however,  does  not  reach  very  far  in 
West  Street.  A  gong,  a  honk,  or  a  whistle  does  better 
service.  People,  when  they  want  to  chat  quietly,  go  inside. 
The  ''inside"  is  a  saloon,  a  restaurant,  a  shop,  or  an  office 
of  the  kind  usually  found  along  the  sea  edge  of  a  city. 
The  North  River  interior  is  newer  than  that  of  the  East 
River  but,  in  character,  not  essentially  different.  The 
shipping  agencies,  supply  stores,  warehouses,  factories, 
mills,  markets,  lumber-yards,  with  all  kinds  of  little  dens 
that  sell  drink  or  food  or  clothing  to  the  longshoremen,  are 


DOCKS   AND   SHIPS  339 

also  apparent.  They  are  not  cleanly-looking  or  inviting. 
The  dust  of  the  street  and  the  habits  of  the  crowd  keep 
them  grimy  and  bedraggled-looking.  But  they  are  pic- 
turesque. Even  the  blatant  sign  with  its  high-keyed  color- 
ing belongs  here  and  helps  complete  the  picture.  Modern 
commerce  in  West  Street,  with  its  trucks  and  liners  and 
dingy  buildings,  is  just  as  pictorial,  and  far  more  truthful, 
than,  say,  Claude's  shipping  and  seaports,  with  classic 
palaces  and  quais  smothered  in  a  sulphur  sunset.  But  it 
may  be  admitted  that  a  proper  angle  of  vision  and  some 
perspective  are  needed  to  see  it  that  way. 

And  around  the  water  front  on  West  Street,  as  well  as 
South  Street,  one  meets  with  a  soiled  and  unkempt-looking 
mass  of  humanity  that  is  quite  as  picturesque  in  its  way  as 
the  streets  or  the  buildings.  It  is  by  no  means  made  up 
of  New  Yorkers  alone.  The  races  of  the  earth  seem  to 
have  sent  representatives  to  it,  each  one  speaking  his  own 
language.  The  waifs  and  strays  that  have  been  jettisoned 
violently  from  foreign  ships,  the  stowaways  from  the  liners, 
the  tramps  from  the  railways,  all  gather  along  the  docks 
looking  for  something  to  turn  up.  Among  them  one  can 
see  blacks  from  Jamaica,  browns  from  India,  yellows  from 
the  Malay  Peninsula,  whites  from  Europe,  and  half-tones 
from  South  America.  It  is  a  colorful  mass  of  humanity  in 
both  face  and  costume,  and  it  has  the  further  artistic 
element  of  repose  about  it.  That  is  to  say,  it  sits  down  in 
the  sunshine  whenever  it  can,  and  works  only  by  fits  and 


340  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

starts.  Its  color  is  oftener  seen  in  conjunction  with  some 
convenient  barrel  or  saloon  bar  than  elsewhere.  No  doubt 
there  are  many  hard-working,  decent  citizens  among  the 
longshoremen,  but  as  a  class  they  are  given  a  rather  bad 
name.  Thieves  and  "dock  rats"  mingle  with  them,  thugs 
like  their  company,  derelicts  from  every  sea,  ne'er-do- 
wells  from  every  shore,  join  them.  The  pohce  do  not 
hold  them  in  the  highest  esteem. 

Yet  the  longshoremen  are  as  much  a  part  of  New  York 
as  the  ship-owners,  agents,  clerks,  commuters,  and  other 
well-dressed  people  that  pass  along  West  Street  —  an 
interesting  part  at  that.  And  West  Street  is  a  character- 
istic New  York  thoroughfare  furnishing  both  color  and 
contrast  with  quite  as  much  vividness  as  Broadway.  It  is 
neither  a  soulful  nor  a  sanitary  belt,  nor  is  it  a  place 
where  one  can  rest  body  or  mind;  but  it  has  swirls  of 
motion,  flashes  of  light,  combinations  of  tones  that  are  at 
least  entertaining.  The  place  and  the  people  complement 
each  other. 


Pl.  (  6.  —  Fkom  Coenties  Slip 


BREATHING   SPACES 


pl.  xx.~-  morningside  park 


yiS^A^    Hai20MIW5IOM  — .XX  .jq 


CHAPTER  XX 

BREATHING    SPACES 

The  demand  for  parks,  with  their  groves,  meadows, 
lakes,  and  rambles,  dates  back  to  the  hanging  gardens  of 
Babylon,  if  not  to  the  Garden  of  Eden.  Mankind  has 
always  loved  the  open  spaces,  especially  when  shut  up  in 
cities;  and  to-day,  whenever  an  odd  acre  comes  into  a 
city's  possession,  its  Common  Council  is  straightway  in- 
vited to  make  a  park  of  it  and  name  it  after  the  last  states- 
man of  the  town. 

This  demand  does  not  come  solely  from  those  who  feed 
the  squirrels  and  study  the  birds.  Everybody  recognizes 
that  parks  are  something  of  the  country  in  the  city,  that 
they  mean  much  pleasure  to  the  town-dwellers,  and  are 
beautiful  fields  of  color  in  a  wilderness  of  steel  and  stone. 
Moreover,  they  are  supposed  to  add  to  urban  healthful- 
ness.  Settlement  workers  and  city-beautiful  folk  talk 
about  them  as  'Hhe  lungs  of  the  city";  and  possibly 
some  fancy  we  should  stop  breathing  without  them. 
Naturally  enough,  they  are  considered  desirable  posses- 
sions. 

But  the  lung  metaphor  is  somewhat  deceptive.     The 

343 


344  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

parks  breathe  for  themselves,  not  for  us.  Trees,  grass, 
flowers,  and  the  open  ground  all  absorb  sunlight  and  air; 
they  do  not  give  them  out.  Instead  of  adding  to  our 
store  they  are  taking  away  from  us  what  they  can.  Of 
course,  they  help  us  negatively.  The  parks  are  attractive, 
we  are  drawn  toward  them  and  into  the  open ;  we  thus 
get  a  larger  quantity  from  the  general  supply  of  air  and 
light  than  we  otherwise  would,  and  are  benefited  thereby. 
The  result  is  the  same  and  the  conclusion  reached  is 
perhaps  correct  enough.  The  parks  are  breathing  spaces 
of  unquestionable  value  to  the  city's  health. 

As  regards  the  supply  of  fresh  air  perhaps  New  York 
is  better  off  than  is  generally  realized.  Manhattan,  it 
will  be  remembered,  is  an  island  with  broad  surrounding 
water-ways;  and  up  and  down  these  water-ways  move 
winds  that  are  forever  changing  and  renewing  the  atmos- 
phere of  the  city.  There  is  never  a  day  when  the  East 
River  has  not  its  breeze.  The  great  wind  areas  of  Long 
Island  Sound  and  the  Lower  Bay  are  connected  by  this 
strait;  and  the  air,  like  the  water,  draws  through  from 
one  to  the  other.  Blackwell's  Island  in  warm  weather  is 
cool  when  the  Central  Park  is  like  an  oven ;  and  the  East 
Siders,  on  their  recreation  piers,  are  comfortably  enjoying 
the  bands  and  the  breezes  while  many  a  Fifth  Avenue 
dinner  party  is  gasping  for  breath  behind  a  row  of  boxed 
bushes  on  the  terrace  of  some  fashionable  restaurant. 

The  Hudson  is  no  such  wind-way  as  the  East  River. 


BREATHING  SPACES  345 

The  air  current  through  the  Palisades  and  beyond  is 
much  slighter,  and  on  some  summer  days  it  is  almost  non- 
existent. Usually,  however,  a  breeze  is  stirring  there,  and 
in  winter,  with  snow,  the  Hudson  can  furnish  forth  a  gale 
to  suit  the  taste  of  the  most  exacting.  At  all  times  it  is 
a  part  of  the  circuit.  Were  it  not,  New  York  would  be  a 
much  hotter  place  in  summer  than  it  is  at  present,  which 
is  something  no  sane  citizen  likes  to  think  about. 

Above  the  rivers  and  above  the  city  there  are  still  other 
movements  of  air  —  the  alternation  and  variation  of  land 
and  sea  breezes.  Down  in  the  small  side  streets  they  are 
not  felt  perhaps,  but  the  high  roof-gardens  and  the  upper 
stories  of  the  sky-scrapers  are  never  without  them.  The 
flags  up  there  are  waving  from  their  staffs,  the  white  steam 
is  cut  off  quickly  from  its  pipe  and  blown  away ;  the  gray 
smoke  streams  out  pennant-like  and  is  soon  lost.  It  is 
these  breezes  of  the  upper  space  that  the  sky-scraper 
gathers  on  its  high  walls  and  shunts  down  into  the  street, 
sometimes  to  the  pedestrian's  disgust,  and  sometimes  to  his 
great  relief.  That  the  lower  city  has  now  cooler  and 
better-ventilated  streets  than  before  the  era  of  high  build- 
ings, there  can  be  no  question.  To  compensate  for  this 
the  high  buildings  have  cut  off  some  light,  and  yet  the 
darkening  of  the  lower  streets  is  not  very  apparent.  Ex- 
change Place  is  always  cited  as  an  example  of  modern 
street  gloom,  but  it  was  never  other  than  a  narrow  alley 
at  any  time. 


346  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

The  air  and  the  light  of  New  York  are  excellent  in 
both  quantity  and  quality.  That  people  build  apartment- 
houses  and  offices  to  exclude  them  is  unfortunately  true. 
In  utilizing  every  foot  of  rentable  space,  rooms  have  been 
constructed  where  neither  air  nor  light  can  enter  except  in 
a  crippled  way.  Unsanitary  conditions  are  likely  to  arise 
from  such  economy,  and,  possibly,  it  is  a  recognition  of 
this  that  drives  so  many  apartment-house  and  tenement- 
house  people  to  the  parks.  There,  or  promenading  the 
streets  or  on  a  roof-garden,  is  about  the  only  place  where 
comparatively  pure  air  and  light  are  obtainable. 

Quite  contrary  to  the  prevailing  belief.  New  York  is 
well  supplied  with  parks.  It  is  usually  assumed  that  the 
Central  Park  is  our  one  and  only  ''lung";  whereas  Man- 
hattan, alone,  has  some  thirty  or  more  open  spaces,  dis- 
tributed throughout  the  borough,  and  doing  service  as 
parks  or  playgrounds.  The  dweller  on  the  ridge,  whose 
business  is  at  one  end  of  Broadway  and  his  residence  not 
far  from  the  other  end,  knows  only  half  a  dozen.  Stuy- 
vesant  Park  with  its  fine  trees.  East  River  Park  with  its 
view  of  the  water  at  Eighty-Fifth  Street,  and  Jefferson 
Park  opposite  Little  Hell  Gate  have  probably  escaped  him. 
On  the  West  Side  the  charming  little  Hudson  Park  with 
its  trees  and  water  garden  and  green  grass  is  quite  as  un- 
known as  the  open  grounds  of  the  General  Theological 
Seminary  at  Twenty-Second  Street,  or  the  Clinton  and 
Audubon  parks  farther  north.     They  are  all  open  spaces, 


BREATHING   SPACES  347 

like  Union  Square  and  the  Battery;  and  are  greatly 
enjoyed  by  their  own  communities,  though  Fifth  Avenue 
knows  them  not. 

The  Central  Park  is,  however,  the  chief  oasis,  and  one 
that  New  Yorkers  are  vastly  proud  of.  It  is  the  largest 
of  the  Manhattan  parks,  being  two  and  a  half  miles  long  by 
half  a  mile  wide  and  containing  eight  hundred  and  forty 
acres.  In  1857  it  was  a  denuded  region  sacred  to  swamps, 
rocks,  refuse,  and  squatters.  From  that  unhappy  condi- 
tion it  was  rescued  by  the  genius  of  Frederick  Law 
Olmsted  and  Calvert  Vaux  and  converted  into  a 
beautiful  piece  of  landscape.  At  the  time  of  its  taking 
over  Mr.  Olmsted  said  of  it  that  it  ^'had  less  desirable 
characteristics  for  a  park"  than  any  other  six  hundred 
acres  on  the  island.  Nevertheless,  such  natural  features 
as  it  possessed  in  hills,  ravines,  hollows,  and  waters  were 
retained  and  emphasized.  It  was  not  made  wholly 
artificial  like  the  Boboli  Gardens  in  Florence,  nor  allowed 
to  run  to  mere  grass  and  trees  like  the  Prater  in  Vienna. 
The  original  endowment  was  cleverly  utilized,  and  the 
stranger  to-day  does  not  know  where  nature  leaves  off  and 
art  begins.  It  is  a  beautiful  blend  of  the  two,  resembling 
nothing  so  much  as  the  well-kept  grounds  and  gardens  of 
some  large  country  seat. 

Yet  the  Central  Park,  for  all  its  variety  in  water,  hill, 
and  meadow,  its  grace  of  roadways,  bridle-paths,  and  foot- 
paths, its  charm  of  color  in  trees  and  vines  and  flowers. 


348  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

has  several  notable  defects.  By  reason  of  being  imbed- 
ded in  the  city  it  is  an  interior  park  without  a  water 
front  —  something  that  is  sadly  missed.  Again,  it  lacks 
commanding  ground,  an  eminence  from  which  a  view  of 
the  city  or  the  surrounding  country  would  be  obtainable. 
Just  now,  hemmed  in  as  it  is  by  high  apartment-houses  and 
hotels,  it  begins  to  look  cramped  in  its  quarters.  Still 
again,  it  has  no  large  trees,  nothing  of  the  primeval  forest. 
When  the  ground  was  taken  over  by  the  city  fifty  years 
ago,  it  was  practically  bare.  Half  a  million  trees,  shrubs, 
and  vines  have  been  set  out  there  since,  and  the  result  has 
been  most  astonishing.  The  trees  now  stand  thick  in 
spots,  the  undergrowth  of  shrubs  is  a  delightful  tangle, 
and  the  happy  disposition  of  flowering  bush  and  plant 
along  the  driveways  calls  for  nothing  but  praise ;  yet  one 
misses  the  big  trees  of  the  Bronx  and  the  Pelham  Bay 
parks. 

And  once  more  (to  go  on  with  the  defects  of  its  character), 
the  Central  Park  has  not  flat  spaces  enough  to  lend  that 
quality  of  repose  so  essential  in  landscape.  It  is  a  series  of 
turns,  twists,  elevations,  and  depressions,  full  of  strange 
and  beautiful  surprises,  stimulating,  even  exciting;  but 
not  restful  or  peaceful.  Its  scant  Meadow,  with  its 
''babble  of  green  fields,"  does  little  more  than  suggest  the 
rural.  It  is  a  meadow  of  a  lovely  if  limited  beauty,  a 
city  meadow  nurtured  by  art.  The  whole  park  is  like  it  — 
a  beautiful  exotic,  a  rare  orchid,  ornate  in  form  and  dis- 


Pl.  77.  —  Lake  in  the  Central  Park 


BREATHING  SPACES  349 

tinguished  in  color;  but  not  a  field  daisy,  not  a  flower 
of  the  forest. 

But  those  who  drive  in  the  Central  Park  every  afternoon 
never  think  of  its  defects  nor  question  its  superiority.  To 
them  it  is  one  of  the  loveliest  spots  in  all  the  world.  And 
in  the  early  spring,  when  the  jonquils  and  Forsythia  are  in 
bloom,  when  the  young  grass  is  just  starting,  and  the  stems 
and  buds  are  reddening  along  the  way,  you  are  quite  ready 
to  agree  with  them.  Nothing  could  be  more  charming 
than  the  park  at  this  time,  unless  it  is  the  same  park  later 
in  the  season  when  the  azaleas  and  rhododendrons  are  out, 
or  bushes  like  the  syringa  are  in  blossom.  All  through  the 
summer  there  is  change  and  variety  in  the  bloom,  and 
when  the  winter  arrives,  the  Belvedere,  the  Mall,  the 
Ramble  are  still  beautiful  in  their  lines  even  under  a 
mantle  of  snow. 

Very  different  from  this  enclosure  is  the  open  strip  of 
land  along  the  Hudson  called  Riverside  Park.  It  is  a  high, 
commanding  bench  of  ground  looking  out  over  the  river  to 
Weehawken  and  the  Palisades,  and  is  without  doubt  the 
finest  driveway  in  Manhattan.  Even  Mr.  Henry  James 
has  something  good  to  say  of  its  natural  location,  if  not 
of  our  utilization  of  it :  — 

"She  (New  York)  has  come  at  last  far  upon  the 
west  side,  into  the  possession  of  her  birthright,  into 
the  roused  consciousness  that  some  possibility  of  a  river 
front   may    still   remain   to   her;    though,  obviously,  a 


350  THE   NEW    NEW   YORK 

justified  pride  in  this  property  has  yet  to  await  the 
birth  of  a  more  responsible  sense  of  style  in  her  dealings 
with  it,  the  dawn  of  some  adequate  plan  or  controlling 
idea.  Splendid  the  elements  of  position,  on  the  part  of 
the  new  'Riverside  Drive'  (over  the  small,  suburbanizing 
name  of  which,  as  at  the  effect  of  a  second-rate,  shop-worn 
article,  we  sigh  as  we  pass) ;  yet  not  less  irresistible  the 
pang  of  our  seeing  it  settle  itself  on  meagre  bourgeois 
happy-go-lucky  lines.  The  pity  of  this  is  sharp  in  propor- 
tion as  the  'chance'  has  been  magnificent,  and  the  sore- 
ness of  perception  of  what  merely  might  have  been  is 
as  constant  as  the  flippancy  of  the  little  vulgar  'private 
houses'  or  the  big  vulgar  apartment  hotels,  that  are  hav- 
ing their  own  way  so  unchallenged,  with  the  whole  question 
of  composition  and  picture.  The  fatal  'tall'  pecuniary 
enterprise  rises  where  it  will,  in  the  candid  glee  of  new 
worlds  to  conquer;  the  intervals  between  take  whatever 
little  foolish  form  they  like ;  the  sky  line,  eternal  victim  of 
the  artless  jumble,  submits  again  to  the  type  of  the  broken 
hair  comb  turned  up ;  the  streets  that  abut  from  the  east 
condescend  at  their  corners  to  any  congruity  or  poverty 
that  may  suit  their  convenience.  And  all  this  in  presence 
of  an  occasion  for  noble  congruity  such  as  one  scarce 
knows  where  to  seek  in  the  case  of  another  great  city."  ^ 

But  commercial  New  York,  with  all  its  greed,  has  not 
ruined  the  Riverside  Park.  On  the  contrary,  a  good  many 
people  have  thought  it  much  improved  by  its  terraces 
and  stone  copings,  its  paths  down  to  the  water,  and  its 
little  towers  and  pavilions.  Seen  from  the  upper  river 
it  is  rather  an  imposing-looking  park  in  its  monuments  and 

'  North  American  Review,  December,  1905. 


BREATHING  SPACES  351 

marbles,  its  trees  and  grass  and  flowers.  As  for  its  skirting 
residences,  they  might  be  worse.  In  fact,  we  have  seen 
worse  along  the  banks  of  the  Thames  and  the  Seine  — 
residences  that  never  have  received  a  word  of  criticism 
on  the  score  of  either  ugliness  or  commercialism.  Farther 
up  the  island  there  is  a  pendant  to  it  (now  fast  changing 
into  a  continuation  of  it),  an  inside  park  —  the  Speedway 
along  the  Harlem.  It  is  not  so  provocative  of  the  adjec- 
tive as  the  Riverside  Drive,  but  is  not  the  less  a  beautiful 
stretch  along  the  water  with  high  woods  and  gracefully 
turned  hills  on  its  western  side. 

But  any  one  of  the  Greater  New  York  boroughs  is 
better  off  than  Manhattan  in  its  parks.  The  borough  of 
the  Bronx,  for  instance,  has  in  the  Bronx  Park  not  only 
six  hundred  odd  acres  of  land,  but  a  river  with  a  gorge, 
many  hills  and  meadows,  and  real  forests.  Van  Cortlandt 
Park  is  still  larger,  with  over  eleven  hundred  acres;  and 
it  also  has  forests,  glen,  meadow,  stream,  and  lake,  where 
people  can  go  without  being  warned  off  the  grass,  where 
golf  and  tennis  and  ball  can  be  played  without  let  or 
hindrance,  and  where  beautiful  gardens  can  be  studied 
quietly  and  loved  at  leisure. 

The  largest  park,  however,  is  that  of  Pelham  Bay, 
with  its  seventeen  hundred  acres.  Perhaps  this  has 
the  greatest  possibilities  of  all,  for  by  the  disposition 
and  the  quantity  of  its  land  it  is  capable  of  bringing  the 
real  shore-and-country  scene  into  the  city  proper.    At 


352  THE    NEW   NEW   YORK 

present  it  is  somewhat  apart  from  the  Hfe  of  the  me- 
tropolis. It  lies  beside  Long  Island  Sound  and  is  six  miles 
from  the  Harlem  River.  The  growth  of  Manhattan  has 
not  extended  up  the  shore  of  the  Sound.  The  facilities 
of  transit  are  not  good,  and  perhaps  the  time-honored 
tradition  of  '^ malaria"  continues.  At  any  rate,  Pel- 
ham  Bay  is  quite  primitive;  and  the  magnificent  park, 
though  under  the  park  commission,  has  not  been  "laid 
out"  like  a  Sans-Souci.  Its  nine  miles  of  shore  line,  its 
islands  and  little  caves  and  bathing  beaches,  are  still  intact 
and  practically  untouched ;  its  broad,  flat  meadows  and 
its  great  trees  have  not  been  wasted  or  denuded  or  cut 
up  in  any  way.  It  is  a  superb  natural  park,  open  to  the 
Sound  view  and  swept  by  the  Sound  breezes.  In  a  short 
time,  when  traveling  there  is  made  easier,  the  people  of  the 
city  will  discover  that  this  is  their  real  playground  —  the 
most  rural  and  restful  of  all  their  parks. 

Prospect  Park  in  Brooklyn  is  another  city-hemmed 
space  like  the  Central  Park  in  Manhattan.  It  is  not  so 
large  by  several  hundred  acres,  but  it  is  in  many  respects  a 
finer  and  more  beautiful  spot  of  green.  It  has  high  ground 
with  a  commanding  view  of  the  greater  city,  the  harbors, 
the  islands,  the  channels,  the  sea.  Indeed,  it  was  this  high 
ground  that  was  chosen  for  the  battle  of  Long  Island  in 
1776,  and  near  it  a  tablet  and  a  monument  record  the 
place  and  the  event.  The  people  of  Brooklyn  were  wise 
in  reserving  this  five-hundred-acre  tract  as  a  memorial, 


\  I-  "^ 


5 

P. 


BREATHING   SPACES  353 

as  well  as  for  a  present  need.  Fortunately,  many  of  its 
old  trees  were  still  standing  when  the  park  was  taken  over 
in  1866,  and  to-day  they  are  one  of  the  attractive  features 
of  the  place.  Besides  these  there  are  meadows,  parade 
grounds,  terraces  with  great  masses  of  flowers,  drives, 
bridle-paths,  lakes,  rambles,  fountains  —  all  that  art  can 
do  to  supplement  nature.  In  addition  there  is  its  imposing 
Flatbush  Avenue  entrance.  A  plaza  has  been  formed 
with  shrubbery  borders,  and  in  the  center  of  it  a  massive 
masonry  arch  in  honor  of  the  soldiers  and  sailors  of  the 
Civil  War  has  been  erected.  On  top  of  it  is  MacMonnies' 
spirited  bronze  quadriga.  From  this  main  entrance  one 
can  drive  straight  down  the  avenue  and  over  the  new 
Manhattan  Bridge  into  Manhattan ;  while  from  the  south- 
eastern entrance  he  can  drive  in  the  opposite  direction  by 
the  Ocean  Parkway  straight  to  Manhattan  Beach  and  the 
sea. 

But  Prospect  Park  is  not  the  only  breathing  place,  nor 
the  best  one,  in  the  borough  of  Brooklyn.  The  East  River 
shore  and  the  Brooklyn  Heights  are  excellent  in  view  and 
in  air;  and  down  below  Gowanus  Bay,  where  the  shore 
runs  into  the  driveway  to  Coney  Island,  the  view  becomes 
vast  and  magnificent.  This  shore  road,  with  its  ridges 
and  meadows  that  slope  down  to  the  water's  edge,  is  to  the 
lower  harbor  what  Riverside  Drive  is  to  the  Hudson  —  a 
point  of  outlook  upon  natural  beauty.  The  flat  water  of 
the  Upper  Bay  and  the  Narrows,  with  its  stately  ships 

2a 


354  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

moving  seaward,  the  distant  heights  of  Staten  Island, 
the  near  water-edge,  with  its  small  craft  at  anchor,  the 
meadows  still  rank  with  wild  flowers,  and  (in  contrast) 
the  road  with  its  artistic  bridges  and  arches,  make  up  a 
picture  perhaps  superior  to  the  Hudson  with  its  Palisades. 

And  what  a  restful  picture  !  On  summer  nights  when 
the  moon  is  up  and  the  wind  is  stirring,  what  a  road  this  is 
to  travel  —  this  winding  road  to  the  sea  !  The  glittering 
waters  are  like  those  of  Lethe,  inducing  forgetfulness  of  the 
city  and  its  business;  the  ghostly  ships  with  their  silver 
sails  are  full  of  poetry  and  romance ;  the  road  flows  on  in 
serpentine  windings  through  a  mystery  of  light  and  shadow. 
It  is  Brooklyn's  most  beautiful  parkway,  and  some  day, 
when  it  is  extended  from  the  bridges  to  Coney  Island,  it 
will  be  possibly  the  finest  shoreway  in  all  the  world. 

One  can  see  a  future  for  these  roads  and  drives  and 
shoreways.  The  new  city  needs  them  as  entrances  and 
exits,  even  more  than  as  pleasure  grounds.  Wide  boule- 
vards in  all  directions,  above  ground  and  below  it,  are 
crying  necessities  of  transit.  About  the  parks,  however, 
one  wonders  and  perhaps  has  doubts.  Will  the  press  of 
business  and  the  crowds  of  people  eventually  crush  them 
out  ?  In  the  boroughs  of  Queens  and  Richmond  there  are 
few  parks  as  yet  established.^  The  open  country  is  still 
existent  there  in  thousands  of  acres.  But  in  crowded 
Manhattan  it  is  very  different.  In  the  congested  districts 
*  Systems  of  parks  have  been  planned  for  both. 


1 


\^^ 


in 


Pl.  79.  —  Palisades  and  the  Hcdsox 


BREATHING   SPACES  355 

many  of  the  little  parks  have  been  converted  into  bare 
playgrounds  where  nothing  green  grows.  It  was  a  neces- 
sity. The  tramp  of  many  feet  requires  a  pavement. 
Besides,  the  park  commissioners  will  tell  you  of  thousands 
of  dollars'  worth  of  trees,  shrubs,  and  flowers  put  out  on 
parkways  one  day,  and  absolutely  disappearing,  root  and 
branch,  before  the  next  day.  And,  aside  from  wear  and 
vandalism,  gases  with  electricity  and  the  close  air  of  the 
city  are  fighting  against  vegetation.  Even  the  rain  that 
comes  to  it  is  tinged  with  sulphuric  acid  by  falling  through 
city  smoke ;  and  that  means  destruction  to  almost  every- 
thing —  copper,  glass,  tin  roofs,  and  growing  life  alike. 
Year  by  year  the  trees  in  the  smaller  parks  seem  to  look 
more  haggard,  the  grass  more  bleached  and  sparse,  the 
flowers  more  like  half-starved  house  plants.  Will  they 
eventually  disappear  and  the  parks  be  turned  into  mere 
open  areas  like  Trafalgar  Square  or  the  Place  de  la  Con- 
corde? 

Business,  to  do  it  justice,  is  rather  fond  of  the  parks. 
Down  town  it  enjoys  the  pale  thin  trees  and  grasses  of 
Trinity  and  St.  Paul's,  and  up  town  it  drives  in  the  Central 
Park  with  both  pride  and  pleasure.  But  some  day  busi- 
ness is  to  absorb  the  whole  island  of  Manhattan,  the 
residences  will  be  converted  into  stores  and  offices,  the 
streets  will  be  for  motor  wagons  only,  business  men  will 
walk  on  second-story  platforms,  and  the  women  and 
children   will  be  housed   beyond  the   thirty-mile   circle. 


356  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

In  that  not-distant  day  what  will  become  of  the  parks  and 
their  growths?  Will  they  be  flattened  into  asphalt  and 
swept  by  the  vagrant  winds,  or  will  they  be  built  up  with 
steel  and  stone  structures  ?  In  New  York  everything  keeps 
shifting,  moving  on,  passing  away.  How  shall  the  parks 
escape  the  swift  transition  and  the  general  change? 


Pl.  80. — Riverside  Drive  —  Grant's  Tomb 


MUNICIPAL  ART 


Pl.  XXI.  — entrance  to    prospect   park,    BROOKLYN 


Hv..oo^a  ....,  ,oB.ao«.  or  3o.a.™3-.,xx  ... 


CHAPTER  XXI 

MUNICIPAL   ART 

Unfortunately  for  the  building  of  the  modern  city,  its 
citizens  never  know  when,  where,  or  how  it  is  to  be  built. 
If  they  did,  perhaps  that  ''plan,"  which  is  considered  so 
essential  to  every  municipal  growth,  would  be  forthcoming 
at  the  start.  As  it  is,  the  dozen  or  more  people  who  are  to- 
day congregating  on  a  point  of  land  near  a  stretch  of  water, 
somewhere  in  Texas  or  Minnesota,  have  no  idea  of  a  city 
of  a  hundred  thousand  deriving  from  their  beginnings. 
The ''  plan  "  to  them  is  superfluous.  They  build  where  they 
please,  and  the  town  just  ''grows,"  taking  whatever  form 
necessity  or  convenience  indicates.  Almost  all  the  cities 
in  the  United  States  have  grown  in  that  fashion. 

But  after  a  city  has  come  to  importance,  commercially 
or  otherwise,  there  is  a  recognition  of  its  defects,  and 
plans  are  drawn  to  remedy  them  by  tearing  down  miles  of 
buildings,  or  appropriating  private  property  for  parks, 
driveways,  and  water  fronts.  The  improvements,  how- 
ever, are  seldom  carried  out  in  their  entirety  because  of 
expense.  Baron  Haussmann,  to  be  sure,  under  a  ruler 
like  Napoleon  III,  slashed  Paris  into  boulevards;   but  it 

359 


360  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

would  be  quite  impossible  to  do  that  now  with  London  or 
Chicago  or  New  York.  There  is  some  tearing  down  and 
widening  of  streets  in  all  these  cities,  some  following  of  a 
plan ;  but  it  is  usually  a  compromise  which  leaves  much  to 
be  desired.  The  cramped  city  still  exists,  and  to  distract 
attention  from  its  lack  of  grouping  and  its  want  of  en- 
trances, or  to  beautify  in  spots  and  places  wanting  the 
larger  opportunity,  city  boards  or  commissions  sometimes 
indulge  in  the  small  ornament  of  sculpture,  fountains, 
lamp-posts,  and  letter-boxes. 

Usually,  however,  these  boards  or  commissions  that 
have  to  do  with  beautifying  the  city  are  possessed  of  small 
power  and  are  required  to  make  bricks  without  straw  — 
to  make  something  out  of  nothing.^  Occasionally  a  park 
commission  is  given  an  open  space  which  it  turns  into 
a  little  park;  but  the  space  is  usually  some  odd  angle  or 
hole  in  the  ground  that  no  one  wants,  and  which  has  been 
used  as  a  dumping-ground  for  years.  The  value  of  parks 
in  a  city  is  something  no  longer  questioned,  and  yet, 
strange  enough,  they  are  about  the  last  things  acquired. 
After  the  best  sites  have  been  taken  by  warehouses, 
factories,  offices,  and  residences,  the  left-over  marsh,  the 
inaccessible  hillside,  the  outgrown  cemetery  may  be  used 
for  a  park,  if  human  ingenuity  can  convert  it  into  one. 
And  it  is  often  astonishing  what  beauty  spots  are  made 

'  The  Art  Commission  in  New  York  has  merely  the  power  of  approving 
or  disapproving  plans  submitted  to  it. 


MUNICIPAL   ART  361 

out  of  these  abandoned  spaces.  The  Central  and  the 
Morningside  parks  in  Manhattan  are  illustrations  to  the 
point. 

The  commissions  do  not  usually  have  such  large  areas 
of  Ught  and  color  to  deal  with  in  recomposing  the  city- 
picture.  Their  opportunities  are  less  magnificent.  They 
are  oftener  asked  merely  to  suggest  the  place  for  a  new 
piece  of  sculpture  —  equestrian  or  otherwise  —  or  to  find 
a  site  for  a  memorial  arch  or  a  soldiers'  monument.  Of 
course,  there  is  no  money  to  purchase  ground  with,  and 
consequently  they  look  about  for  city  property,  to  be  had 
perhaps  for  the  asking.  Almost  invariably  the  choice  falls 
upon  the  parks ;  and  the  sculpture  or  the  monument  goes 
up  along  a  foot-path,  or  a  carriage  way,  in  some  prominent 
place  where  the  public  must  see  it  whether  they  like  it  or 
not. 

It  is  hard  to  imagine  a  worse  conjunction  of  nature  and 
art  than  this.  A  park  is  a  place  where  people  sometimes  go 
to  get  rid  of  art,  to  get  away  from  society  and  civilization, 
to  get  back  to  Mother  Earth  for  a  brief  spell.  Those  who 
frequent  it  are,  for  the  time  being  at  least,  more  interested 
inthe  sculpture  of  the  trees  than  in  the  modeling  of  horses' 
legs  and  men's  uniforms.  The  Metropolitan  Museum, 
for  instance,  filled  as  it  is  with  valuable  collections,  has 
no  pertinence  nor  place  in  the  Central  Park;  and  the 
Cleopatra's  Needle  near  it  has  no  significance  here  nor 
there  nor  anywhere  in  America.    The  Soldiers'  Monument 


362  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

and  Grant's  Tomb  on  the  Riverside  Drive  are  not  so 
objectionably  located,  because  the  drive  is  less  of  a  park 
than  an  enlarged  boulevard ;  but  even  so  it  may  be  ques- 
tioned if  they  add  to  the  beauty  of  the  front.  As  for  the 
smaller  sculptures  in  the  parks  —  the  single  figures,  busts, 
crouching  animals,  and  smiUng  publicans  that  peer  out 
from  beneath  overhanging  trees  or  pose  grandly  from 
commanding  knolls  —  they  should  all  be  removed.  The 
cast-iron  deer  lying  on  the  front  lawn,  and  the  white- winged 
angel  of  the  fountain,  which  meant  ''art"  to  us  forty 
years  ago,  were  not  more  inappropriately  placed  than  the 
present-day  statues  in  the  public  parks.  Both  nature 
and  art  suffer  by  the  unhappy  union.  There  should 
be  an  absolute  divorce,  and  the  parties  forbidden  to 
remarry. 

Sculpture  belongs  in  the  streets  and  paved  squares. 
Originally  it  was  an  accessory  or  complementary  art,  and 
was  used  to  adorn  architecture.  Even  to-day  it  is  seen 
at  its  best  in  conjunction  with  buildings,  or  near  them. 
A  place  like  Columbus  Circle,  a  triangle  as  at  the  meeting 
of  Broadway  and  Fifth  Avenue,  a  Plaza,  or  a  Bowling 
Green,  are  the  proper  places  for  detached  groups.  Any 
paved  square,  or  open  spot  devoid  of  trees,  is  much  to  be 
preferred  to  a  park  or  drive-way.  Bronze  or  marble  blends 
with  and  matches  brick  or  granite  better  than  it  does  trees 
and  grass.  Besides,  both  represent  human  activities  and 
perhaps  belong  together  in  what  they  express.    The  public 


MUNICIPAL   ART  363 

buildings,  if  not  too  high,  are,  of  course,  appropriate  places 
for  sculpture,  as  witness  the  Municipal  Court  Building  on 
Madison  Square,  or  the  Custom  House  at  Bowling  Green. 
The  City  Hall,  the  Public  Library,  the  Library  of  Columbia 
University,  the  Museum  of  Natural  History,  St.  Patrick's 
Cathedral,  St.  John's  Cathedral,  are  other  places  where  it 
would  not  only  show  to  advantage,  but  materially  en- 
hance the  architecture.  Ordinarily  the  approaches  to 
bridges  would  be  considered  excellent  opportunities  for  the 
use  of  sculpture,  but  just  here  we  run  afoul  of  trouble,  at 
least  as  regards  the  bridges  of  New  York.  It  is  the  diffi- 
culty of  scale,  of  which  mention  has  already  been  made,  — 
a  difficulty  that  must  be  met  by  artists,  art  societies,  and 
city  commissions,  and  somehow  reconciled. 

We  have  borrowed  most  of  our  ideas  of  civic  sculpture 
from  the  older  capitals  of  Europe.  The  modest  scale  of 
that  sculpture  was,  and  is  still,  quite  appropriate  to  London 
and  Paris  and  Vienna  with  their  five-  and  six-story  build- 
ings and  their  small  river  bridges;  but  how  does  it  com- 
port with  the  twenty-story  sky-scrapers  and  the  colossal 
suspension  bridges  of  the  new  New  York  ?  How  shall  the 
ordinary  street  sculpture  make  itself  seen  or  heard  or  felt 
amid  these  enormous  masses  of  steel  and  granite  ?  Aside 
from  its  failure  or  success  in  expressing  the  ideals  of  a 
twentieth-century  people,  does  it  or  is  it  possible  for  it  to 
decorate  the  city  adequately?  There  is  no  quarrel  with 
that  fine  European-inspired  art  of  the  past.    It  served 


364  THE  NEW  NEW  YORK 

its  purpose  well;   but  is  it  sufficient  for  the  new  era  and 
the  new  people?    Let  us  look  at  a  few  examples. 

Twenty  years  ago  Saint  Gaudens'  ''Farragut"  on  the 
edge  of  Madison  Square  was  quite  in  keeping  with  its 
surrounding  buildings.  It  was  to  be  seen  from  a  distance, 
in  an  environment  that  did  it  no  great  violence;  and 
everyone  looked  up  to  it  and  admired  it  for  its  sturdy 
strength  and  dignity.  With  its  fine  pediment  and  exedra 
it  was  one  statue,  at  least,  in  the  city  that  was  worth 
looking  at  as  civic  decoration.  But  what  about  it  to-day, 
surrounded  as  it  is  by  cloud-capped  towers  and  enormous 
buildings  ?  Is  it  not  dwarfed  into  a  statuette  and  rendered 
somewhat  insignificant  ?  It  is  the  same  statue  as  twenty 
years  ago,  but  it  has  suffered  a  change  by  being  thrown  out 
of  scale.  A  similar  feeling  possesses  one  about  the  superb 
''Sherman"  in  the  Plaza,  though  it  is  larger  in  size,  and  in 
a  less  confined  space,  than  the  "Farragut."  That  thin, 
determined  rider  and  the  lean,  mettlesome  horse  have 
become  absolutely  attenuated  by  the  lofty  hotels  around 
them.  The  group  begins  to  look  like  a  mantel  ornament  — 
something  for  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  rather  than  the 
Plaza.  And  there  is  the  Dodge  statue  in  Herald  Square, 
another  good  illustration,  if  rather  bad  art.  Who  sees  it 
for  the  huge  shops  about  it?  But  yesterday  a  native 
New  Yorker  was  insisting  that  there  was  no  statue  of  any 
kind  in  Herald  Square  —  at  least,  he  had  not  noticed  one 
there  in  the  last  ten  years. 


Pl.  81.  —  St.  John  the  Divink  (in  con.stkuctiun) 


MUNICIPAL    ART  365 

Nor  has  sculpture  fared  well  when  employed  on  the 
sky-scrapers  themselves.  What  could  be  done  with 
figures  on,  say,  the  Flatiron  or  the  Times  Building  or  the 
Trinity  Building  down  town?  You  may  detach  an 
eighteen-foot  Diana  from  Madison  Square  tower  by 
using  it  for  a  weather  vane,  and  by  thus  placing  it  in 
relief  against  the  sky  gain  an  effect  of  graceful  line;  but 
place  the  Diana,  or  any  other  eighteen-foot  figure,  in  a 
niche  three  hundred  and  seventy  feet  from  the  street,  in 
the  tower  of  the  Metropolitan  Life  Building,  and  what 
would  become  of  it?  It  is  hardly  possible  to  get  either 
an  expressive  or  a  decorative  effect  from  figures  twenty 
stories  up  in  the  air.  Sculpture  was  never  designed  or 
fitted  for  such  structures.  These  enormous  buildings 
have  not  only  outgrown  the  plastic  arts,  but  all  the 
architectural  orders  as  well.  Columns  and  pedestals 
and  pilasters,  with  carved  entablatures  and  pediments, 
fail  to  eke  out  the  distances  or  hold  as  ornament.  They 
are  inadequate,  as,  indeed,  are  almost  all  of  the  building 
contrivances  of  the  past  when  confronted  with  this  new 
problem.  The  problem,  with  its  decorative  effects,  must 
be  worked  out  on  a  new  basis,  and  on  a  much  larger 
and  more  comprehensive  scale.  To  declare  the  sky- 
scraper '^hideous"  and  to  pray  its  speedy  abolition  is  to 
evade  the  question.  The  tall  building  is  here  to  stay 
and  must  be  reckoned  with. 

Of  course,  the  smaller  "village  improvement"  features 


366  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

that  are  from  time  to  time  discussed  by  municipal  art 
societies,  are  destined  to  neglect  in  New  York  from  sheer 
want  of  importance.  When  the  city  is  built  up  with 
tall  buildings,  of  what  vital  interest  the  color  of  a  letter- 
box or  the  shape  of  an  electrolier?  In  Florence  a  brass 
bowl  for  a  barber's  sign,  hung  above  a  door,  looks  rather 
pretty,  and  a  wrought-iron  design  that  advertises  a  lock- 
smith in  Nuremberg  is  quaint  and  interesting ;  but  what 
could  you  do  with  them  in  front  of  the  Park  Row  Build- 
ing or  the  Hotel  Astor?  How  is  the  man  who  occupies 
the  eighteenth  story  of  the  Terminal  Building  to  adver- 
tise his  wares  except  at  night  by  an  electric  device?  It 
is  useless  to  discuss  the  time-honored  sign,  whether  in 
brass  or  iron  or  gold,  as  either  an  ornament  or  an  ex- 
crescence, so  far  as  the  sky-scraper  is  concerned.  It 
will  not  be  used  at  all,  because  it  will  not  be  seen.  Any- 
one who  looks  over  the  new  high-building  region  of  New 
York  must  be  impressed  by  the  absence  of  old-fashioned 
signs. 

Fortunately  for  New  York,  those  who  have  the  planning 
and  the  improving  of  the  city  in  their  keeping  or  on  their 
conscience,  hunt  larger  game  than  signs,  house  numbers, 
gas  fixtures,  and  commemorative  tablets.  They  have  an 
idea  that  New  York  is  to  be  a  great  city,  with  its  business 
center  located  in  Manhattan,  and  that  it  is  vitally  impor- 
tant there  be  more  and  larger  exits  and  entrances.  With 
that   thought    they    have    planned    new    avenues,    new 


Pl.  82.  —  Ward's  Pilgrim,  the  Central  Park 


MUNICIPAL   ART  367 

wharves  and  water  fronts,  new  methods  of  relieving  the 
congestion  of  freight  as  well  as  of  passengers,  new  bridge 
approaches  and  terminals.  In  connection  with  this, 
both  for  use  and  beauty,  they  have  planned  the  widening 
of  Fifth  Avenue,  the  removal  of  the  Central  Park  walls 
and  the  making  of  broad  parkways  on  either  side,  the 
linking,  by  the  bridges,  of  Manhattan  and  its  park  systems 
with  the  other  boroughs  and  their  park  systems.  Still 
further,  they  hope  by  locating  new  city  buildings,  to 
produce  a  civic  center  from  which  avenues  shall  radiate 
through  the  greater  city,  touching  other  centers  in  the 
different  boroughs.  Finally,  they  hope  to  make  monu- 
ments of  city  art  out  of  school  buildings,  libraries,  engine 
houses,  and  other  public  edifices ;  and  to  give  them  proper 
setting  by  grouping  them  in  smaller  centers  about  parks 
or  open  squares. 

All  this  is  quite  as  it  should  be,  provided  it  is  carried 
out  on  a  sufficiently  large  scale  —  a  scale  in  proportion 
to  the  new  city.  Presumably,  many  of  the  plans  will 
never  be  executed,  and  possibly  some  formalism  will  be 
avoided  thereby.  The  tendency  of  any  plan  is  to  produce 
rigidity  and  to  destroy  picturesqueness  of  which  New 
York  is  at  present  such  a  fine  example;  but  there  is  no 
doubt  about  the  planned  city  being  the  more  convenient 
and  the  more  impressive  at  first  blush.  Paris  became 
"a  city  of  magnificent  distances"  after  Haussmann's 
surgery,  though  perhaps  it  is  now  a  little  stupid  in  its 


368  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

uniformity  and  lacking  in  a  former  charm  of  color.  New 
York,  under  the  ''plan"  of  1811,  was  for  many  years  a 
dull  collection  of  checker-board  squares  until  the  change 
in  the  sky  line  made  by  the  tall  buildings  and  the  bridges 
relieved  its  monotony.  That  plan  was  as  bad  as,  pre- 
sumably, any  new  one  is  good ;  but  it  is  not  desirable 
to  have  too  much  regularity  if  the  city  is  to  be  interesting 
and  beautiful. 

And  what  is  to  make  the  new  city  beautiful  if  we  do 
away  with  so  many  of  the  art  features  of  the  past  ?  The 
green  parks  seem  destined  to  destruction  by  congestion 
of  population  and  plant-food  poisoning;  isles  of  safety, 
drinking  fountains,  statues,  lamps,  signs,  and  all  the 
small  art  of  the  older  city  seem  to  lack  in  carrying  power ; 
an  effect  of  composition  by  the  grouping  of  buildings, 
such  as  one  saw  at  the  Columbian  Exposition,  or  such 
as  is  now  becoming  apparent  with  less  formality  in  the 
placing  of  Columbia  University,  seems  possible  only  in 
isolated  spots  because  of  the  item  of  expense.  What  then 
is  the  new  beauty  of  the  city  to  be  ?  Wherein  shall  lie 
the  secret  of  its  outer  attractiveness? 

Those  questions  are  for  the  future  to  answer;  and  yet 
an  inclination  is  apparent,  an  example  has  been  set.  The 
scale  of  the  new  city  has  been  established  in  majestic 
proportions.  The  high  buildings  and  the  huge  bridges 
are  its  measure.  The  future  aqueducts,  railways,  tunnels, 
boulevards,  avenues,  squares,  circles,  will  have  to  conform 


^ 


if! 


Pl.  S3.  —  Fountain  on  Riverside  Drive 


MUNICIPAL   ART  369 

to  the  established  scale.  Out  of  this  shall  come  some- 
thing in  grandeur  as  yet  quite  uncomprehended.  The 
possibilities  of  the  new  architecture  are  the  possibilities 
of  the  new  city.  Not  the  size  of  it  alone,  not  its  mass, 
shall  be  its  sole  impressive  feature.  There  is  no  limit  to 
the  forms  that  may  be  evolved,  the  groupings  and  mid- 
air compositions  that  may  be  brought  into  existence, 
the  lights  and  shadows  that  may  be  thus  created.  The 
bridges  already  have  grace  of  line,  and  the  buildings  com- 
manding height.  That  which  is  to  come  will  be  no  less 
impressive. 

To  gigantic  form  must  be  added  the  further  possibility  of 
color.  Heretofore  it  has  been  used  only  in  spots,  but  there 
is  now  something  more  than  a  chance  of  its  use  in  large 
masses.  The  opportunity  offered  by  the  bridges  suggests 
it,  and  some  of  the  sky-scrapers  already  realize  it.  With 
walls  that  are  used  only  as  fire  or  weather  shields,  the 
architect  is  not  pinned  down  to  stone  or  brick.  Almost 
any  material  and  almost  any  stain  or  hue  may  be  made 
available.  Given  the  high  buildings  in  different  color- 
ings, with  those  colorings  shown  not  only  in  full  sunlight 
but  under  shadow,  and  one  can  imagine  a  picturesque 
effect  more  imposing  than  any  that  has  ever  gone  before 
us  in  the  world's  history. 

This  would  be  an  expression  of  municipal  art  in  terms 
of  commercialism  and  possibly  objectionable  to  some 
for  that  very  reason.     But    why?    A  city  should  grow 

2b 


370  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

up  and  out  of  its  necessities,  and  assert  itself  and  its 
character  in  what  guise  or  garb  it  needs  or  craves.  Rome 
expressed  itself  in  one  kind  of  art,  Paris  in  quite  another 
kind.  Shall  the  great  port  of  the  west  not  express  itself 
in  still  another?  More  than  once  has  commerce  out  of 
its  objects  of  use  created  (perhaps  unconsciously)  objects 
of  beauty.  The  beauty  comes  with  the  integrity  of  the 
use  and  the  frank  avowal  of  the  purpose.  It  has  been 
so  in  the  past  and  there  is  no  reason  to  believe  that  it 
will  not  be  so  again  in  the  future. 


^^^""^^ 


Pl.  84.  —  Soldiers'  Moxumext,  Riverside  Drive 


FOR   MERE   CULTURE 


Pl.  XXII.  — university   of    new   YORK 


:«510Y   W3W   HO   YTI25I3VmU— .IIXX  .J'? 


CHAPTER  XXII 

FOR  MERE   CULTURE 

New  York  has  outgrown,  or  is  outgrowing,  its  smaller 
art,  but  it  must  not  be  thought  that  this  has  been  boxed 
up  and  sent  to  the  junk  shop  or  the  warehouse.  On  the 
contrary,  it  is  still  in  place,  and  the  bulk  of  it  is  treasured 
and  admired.  Every  little  angle  of  green  grass  is  consid- 
ered an  emerald  in  the  city's  girdle,  every  statue  is,  more 
or  less,  a  title  of  distinction,  and  almost  every  marble 
temple  or  terra-cotta  palace  doing  service  as  a  bank  or 
an  office,  is  pointed  at  with  pride.  And  not  without  some 
show  of  reason,  for  much  of  it  is  good,  even  though  wrongly 
conceived  and  badly  placed.     For  instance  :  — 

The  marble  bank  building  on  Fifth  Avenue  and  Thirty- 
Fourth  Street  is  a  very  respectable  classic  edifice  which,  if 
placed  on  a  Roman  hill,  or  even  a  Brooklyn  height,  might 
look  rather  commanding;  but  what  does  it  on  Fifth 
Avenue,  surrounded  by  sky-scrapers,  squeezed  into  a  lot 
much  too  small  for  it,  with  its  approach,  and  even  its 
steps,  cut  off  by  the  sidewalk?  The  Clearing  House  on 
Cedar  Street  is  not  a  bad  imperial  arch,  but  there  is  no 
vista  through  it,  no  approach  for  it,  and  no  part  of  it  is  in 

373 


374  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

focus  because  of  the  narrowness  of  the  street.  This  last 
statement  is  true  again  of  the  Chamber  of  Commerce  in 
Liberty  Street,  with  its  statues  of  Jay,  Hamilton,  and 
Clinton  perched  on  the  fagade,  or  the  Stock  Exchange  on 
Broad  Street,  with  its  sculptured  figures  in  the  pediment 
seen  chiefly  in  detached  feet  and  hands  that  project  over 
the  ledge.  Both  buildings  are  distorted  in  their  placings, 
wanting  in  perspective,  and  ineffective,  though  a  zeal 
for  art  inspired  them. 

Some  of  the  new  buildings,  however,  have  fared  better 
—  the  PubUc  Library,  for  instance.  It  has  sufficient 
frontage  and  depth,  and  can  be  seen  from  Fifth  Avenue, 
though  it  would  look  more  attractive  in  a  larger  frame. 
Commercialism  did  not  dictate  either  its  style  or  its  size. 
It  was  built  quite  as  much  for  beauty  as  for  service,  and 
the  citizens  of  New  York  seem  well  pleased  that  it  is 
beautiful.  Everyone  looks  at  it  with  pleasure  as  he 
passes  by.  Art,  more  than  patriotism,  also  dictated 
the  clean-cut  Washington  Arch  farther  down  the  avenue, 
small  as  it  now  appears,  and  perhaps  had  more  to  do 
with  the  building  of  Madison  Square  Garden  than  con- 
siderations of  box-office  receipts.  Some  of  the  purely 
commercial  ventures  on  Fifth  Avenue  have  paid  the 
highest  tribute  possible  for  them  to  the  aesthetics  of 
architecture,  as,  for  examples,  the  Tiffany  and  Gorham 
buildings  —  both  of  them  excellent  in  design.  As  for 
the  new  business  places,  and  even  some  of  the  West  Side 


FOR   MERE   CULTURE  375 

factories,  they,  with  club-houses  Hke  the  University  and 
the  Metropolitan,  and  the  recently  built  residences  along 
the  avenues  and  the  side  streets,  unite  in  proclaiming  a 
desire  for  art  if  not  always  its  fulfillment. 

Among  the  detached  sculpture  in  the  parks  and  streets, 
bad  as  much  of  it  always  was,  and  insignificant  as  most 
of  it  has  become,  there  are  still  some  notable  examples 
which  people  do  not  care  to  forget.  Aside  from  the  works 
of  Saint  Gaudens,  there  is  the  '^Nathan  Hale"  of  Mac- 
Monnies  in  City  Hall  Park,  Browne's  fine  statue  of  ''Wash- 
ington" in  Union  Square  (the  first  equestrian  statue  cast 
in  America),  the  ''Hunt  Memorial"  by  French  on  the 
east  wall  of  the  Central  Park,  Ward's  "  Pilgrim  "  within 
the  park.  There  is  no  taint  of  trade  about  such  works. 
Even  the  artless  effigies  in  stone  and  bronze,  with  the 
fountains  and  monuments  which  are  strewn  promiscu- 
ously about  the  city,  do  not  speak  of  profits  and  percent- 
ages. Good  or  bad,  they  were  put  forth  in  a  proper 
spirit,  not  for  gain,  but  in  desire  of  beauty. 

But  the  fancy  for  the  things  of  art  goes  beyond  a  statue 
in  the  park,  or  a  classic  lamp-post  on  the  avenue.  There 
is  the  huge  Metropolitan  Museum,  full  of  art-plunder  to 
the  doors,  which  shows  a  sense  of  acquisition  if  not 
perhaps  the  most  critical  judgment.  The  MetropoHtan 
is  not  only  the  one  famous  museum  in  America,  but,  by 
virtue  of  its  valuable  contents,  is  fast  becoming  of  world 
importance.     It  has  money  endowments,  many  wealthy 


376  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

patrons,  and  is  continually  enlarging  its  collections  and 
extending  its  usefulness.  In  such  circumstances  it  cannot 
fail  as  a  dominant  factor  in  the  art-education  of  the 
people.  That  New  Yorkers  enjoy  it  and  profit  by  it  is 
evidenced  by  the  hundreds  of  thousands  of  visitors  that 
go  to  it.  It  is,  all  told,  the  most  popular  place  in  the 
city. 

There  are  many  other  semi-public  collections  of  mar- 
bles, pictures,  porcelains,  and  antiquities  in  the  city, 
such  as  those  of  the  New  York  Historical  Society,  or 
the  Lenox  Library,  or  the  City  Hall ;  but  all  of  these  put 
together  do  not  equal  the  quantities  of  fine  art  in  the  New 
York  houses.  There  are  hundreds  of  galleries  of  pictures, 
with  bronzes,  fabrics,  and  furniture,  in  individual  hands, 
which  do  educational  service  in  a  quiet  way  among 
coteries  of  friends.  These  collections  are  famous  for  their 
pictures  by  the  Fontainebleau-Barbizon  painters,  for 
Manet  and  Monet,  for  old  Dutch  and  Flemish  painters, 
for  old  masters  of  Italy  and  Spain.  The  purchase  of 
these  works  has,  in  recent  years,  set  the  European  art 
markets  agog.  Almost  every  masterpiece  that  turns  up 
in  the  auction  room  is  bid  in  for  New  York,  until  Europe 
has  cried  out  against  the  draining  of  its  resources.  But 
pictures,  marbles,  tapestries,  porcelains,  furniture,  medals, 
plate,  rugs,  keep  coming  to  this  port.  The  result  is  that 
New  York  has  become  the  great  art  market  of  the  world. 
The  galleries  of  the  dealers  are  on  almost  every  block  of 


V,   '^Ss'ii     ,\^'£ 


Ph 


FOR  MERE  CULTURE  377 

middle  Fifth  Avenue,  and  the  trade  in  antiquities  (even 
forged  ones)  has  become  very  large. 

The  city  is  not  only  the  chief  market  for  foreign 
art,  but  it  is  the  chief  center  of  domestic  production. 
Here  are  located  not  only  the  museums,  but  the  societies 
like  the  National  Academy  of  Design,  the  New  York 
Water  Color  Club,  the  American  Water  Color  Society, 
the  Architectural  League,  the  Society  of  Decorative 
Art.  Here  also  are  the  art  schools  of  the  National  Acad- 
emy, the  Art  Students'  League,  the  Cooper  Union,  and 
many  others.  There  are  upwards  of  ten  thousand  art- 
ists in  the  city,  working  in  their  professions,  making  a 
living  by  various  art  industries;  and  thousands  of  other 
people  are  interested  with  them  in  exhibiting,  or  ex- 
plaining, or  seUing  their  work.  If  all  these  various 
manifestations  of  artistic  interest  were  added  together, 
one  might  be  pardoned  for  thinking  of  New  York  as 
a  new  Athens  or  Florence  on  the  shore  of  this  western 
world. 

And  what  about  the  interest  in  music  and  the  drama  ? 
Is  there  any  other  city,  except  possibly  Berlin,  that  sup- 
ports, as  New  York  does,  two  (three,  if  we  include  the  old 
Academy)  opera-houses,  half  a  dozen  conservatories  of 
music,  two  dozen  musical  societies,  and  thirty  musically 
incHned  churches?  Perhaps  there  is  not  such  a  universal 
love  for  the  art  as  these  comprehensive  figures  would 
imply.    New  York  is  not  so  musically  set  as  Dresden  or 


378  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

Vienna  or  Buda-Pesth.  Many  thousands  of  its  people 
care  little  for  it;  and  yet  the  fact  remains  that  the  best 
musicians  and  singers  come  here,  the  best  operas,  ora- 
torios, and  chamber-music  are  given  here,  and  perhaps 
as  good  orchestral  music  as  the  age  is  capable  of  is  heard 
here.  True  enough,  there  are  plenty  of  so-called  music 
halls  that  beat  out  sentimental  arias  to  please  people 
of  crude  tastes;  but  the  better  New  York,  even  though 
submerged  to  the  neck  in  business,  still  has  ears  left  for 
Wagner  or  Richard  Strauss  or  Debussy. 

And  it  always  had  eyes  for  the  theater — that  great 
modern  educator  of  those  who  ''never  have  time  to  read." 
There  are  some  fifty  or  sixty  theaters  in  the  borough  of 
Manhattan  where  something  is  being  performed  every 
evening,  and  several  afternoons  of  the  week  —  the  last 
but  not  the  least  of  these  to  come  forward  being  the  new 
Endowed  Theater  on  Central  Park  West,  which  is  dedi- 
cated to  the  highest  ideals  of  the  drama.  Lest  this  large 
number  of  playhouses  give  the  impression  that  the  city 
has  gone  daft  on  amusements,  or  turned  completely 
over  to  the  Evil  One,  as  some  would  have  it,  it  is  worth 
while  stating  that  in  the  borough  of  Manhattan  there  are 
also  twelve  hundred  churches  where  the  Gospel  is  preached 
to  some  half  million  of  people.  However  much  New 
Yorkers  may  be  devoted  to  dollar-getting,  they  have  time 
and  inclination  for  the  play  and  the  sermon. 

New  York  makes  money  out  of  science  by  applying 


FOR   MERE   CULTURE  379 

it  in  industry,  and  does  it  very  cleverly  too ;  yet  it  spends 
large  sums  in  exploiting  pure  science  with  no  money 
thought  back  of  the  endeavor.  Look  at  the  magnificent 
Museum  of  Natural  History  with  its  famous  collections; 
or  the  wonderful  Botanical  Garden  in  the  Bronx  with  its 
laboratories,  herbarium,  libraries,  and  thousands  of  living 
plants;  or  the  Aquarium  at  the  Battery,  the  largest  and 
most  complete  in  the  world,  not  excepting  the  famous 
Aquario  of  Naples;  or  even  the  ''Zoo"  in  the  Bronx, 
where  the  grown-ups  go  quite  as  frequently  as  the  chil- 
dren !  Half  of  the  learned  societies  and  scientific  associa- 
tions and  engineering  clubs  in  the  country  have  their 
homes  in  New  York.  Here  new  discoveries  are  demon- 
strated in  the  laboratory  and  explained  from  the  lecture 
platform;  here  new  theories  are  discussed  by  societies, 
and  the  discussions  published  in  the  journals  of  their  pro- 
ceedings; here  new  hypotheses  in  mechanics,  electrics, 
microscopies,  or  any  other  phase  of  pure  science  are  for- 
mulated. Even  the  fields  of  discussion  in  geology,  eth- 
nology, political  and  ethical  science,  or  the  more  abstruse 
philosophy  of  religion  with  its  theological  corollaries, 
are  here. 

Let  us  go  a  little  farther  and  see  what  this  city  of  trade 
is  doing  for  general  education — doing  for  mere  culture. 
It  is  the  great  center  of  the  New  World  for  the  print- 
ing and  publishing  of  newspapers  and  magazines. 
There  are  in  the  greater  city  fifty-two  daily  and  ninety- 


380  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

six  weekly  newspapers,  with  eighty  or  more  magazines. 
Among  these  are  the  best  newspapers  and  periodicals  in 
the  country.  They  are  issued  in  all  languages,  and  con- 
tain enough  miscellaneous  information  to  make  a  good- 
sized  encyclopaedia ;  but  vast  as  is  their  influence  in  edu- 
cation, the  average  business  man  in  New  York  does  not 
take  them  too  seriously.  He  looks  them  over,  reading 
an  article  here  and  there.  He  has,  however,  a  more 
abiding  interest  in  books.  They  are  articles  of  trade, 
like  the  newspapers;  but  New  York  is  well  disposed  to 
value  them  as  matters  of  culture,  too.  Its  many  pubHc 
libraries  and  their  liberal  support  bear  witness  to  this 
spirit.  Aside  from  the  large  library  on  Fifth  Avenue, 
to  contain  the  Astor,  Tilden,  and  Lenox  foundations, 
aside  from  the  fifty  or  sixty  Carnegie  branches  of  it,  there 
are  over  fifty  other  pubHc  or  semi-pubhc  Hbraries  in  Man- 
hattan, containing  hundreds  of  thousands  of  books,  on 
all  subjects,  and  almost  every  one  of  them  free  to  readers. 
This  does  not  include  the  Hbraries  of  the  many  clubs  or 
private  schools  or  colleges  or  societies,  where  admission 
is  obtained  only  by  card. 

This  publishing  of  many  periodicals  and  books  in 
New  York  results  in  the  city  being  well  supplied  with 
editors  and  authors.  At  one  time  Boston  had  the  dis- 
tinction of  being  the  home  of  American  writers,  but  to-day 
New  York  may  be  considered  the  great  gathering  place. 
They  come  from  all  over  the  United  States,  drawn  by  the 


FOR   MERE  CULTURE  381 

intellectual  advantages  of  the  city,  and  in  spite  of  its 
(to  them)  rather  repellent  commerce  and  wealth.  They 
gather  at  clubs  like  the  Century  and  the  Authors,  where 
with  painters,  sculptors,  architects,  lawyers,  and  public 
men  generally,  they  create  an  atmosphere  of  their  own 
which  is  sometimes  described  in  magazine  articles  under 
such  a  caption  perhaps  as  "Literary  New  York."  That 
atmosphere  is  a  decided  influence  in  the  city,  though  not 
known  on  the  Stock  Exchange  nor  revealed  in  any  for- 
eigner's three-weeks  impressions  of  the  city,  written  for 
Continental  consumption.  Indeed,  some  of  our  million- 
aires are  not  exempt  from  it,  but  a  part  of  it.  They  may 
even  think  that,  rather  than  money,  their  title  to  dis- 
tinction. 

Still  another  step,  at  the  risk  of  becoming  wearisome, 
to  show  what  this  Gotham  of  dollars-and-cents  does  for 
definite  and  systematic  education  among  its  rising  gen- 
erations. Any  city  may  encourage  browsing  in  public 
libraries  or  museums,  or  listening  in  lecture  rooms  and 
theaters;  but  New  York  does  more  than  that.  It  has, 
for  instance,  a  school  system,  working  thoroughly  and 
efficiently  in  some  six  hundred  schoolhouses,  which,  with 
about  ten  thousand  teachers,  is  giving  a  primary  educa- 
tion, at  least,  to  some  six  hundred  thousand  school 
children. 

The  expense  of  this  is  large  (about  twenty-nine  mil- 
lions of  dollars  a  year),  and  it  is  no  trivial  test  of  New 


382  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

York's  desire  for  knowledge  for  its  children  that  it  sup- 
ports this  expense  without  complaint.  Furthermore,  it 
insists  that  all  children  in  the  city  between  the  ages  of 
eight  and  fourteen  shall  attend,  —  shall  receive  the  equip- 
ment of  a  common-school  education,  at  least.  To  enforce 
this  requirement  it  employs  thirty  or  more  attendance 
officers  whose  duty  it  is  to  bring  in  the  delinquents. 
For  those  who  cannot  attend  in  the  daytime  there  are 
night  schools;  and  all  winter  there  are  lecture  courses 
in  the  schoolhouses,  on  almost  every  conceivable  sub- 
ject, free  to  anyone  who  will  come,  parents  as  well  as 
children.  Any  student  who  wishes  to  go  higher  than  the 
public  schools  has  the  opportunity  of  doing  so.  There 
are  a  dozen  high  schools,  a  normal  college  for  women,  and 
the  city  college  for  men,  with  industrial  schools  of  various 
kinds  and  descriptions.  There  is  practically  no  limit  to 
what  the  ambitious  youth  may  attain  in  education;  and 
that,  too,  without  cost. 

The  number  of  private  schools  in  the  city  would  be 
difficult  to  estimate;  but  in  Manhattan  there  are  at 
least  fifty  (some  of  them  with  local  and  some  with  na- 
tional reputations),  where  a  secondary  education  is  taught 
to  thousands  of  pupils.  Many  of  these  schools  prepare 
for  college,  and  New  York  has  a  goodly  number  of  insti- 
tutions of  collegiate  rank.  There  is  Columbia  University 
to  start  with  —  one  of  the  largest  and  best  in  the  United 
States.    It  was  founded  before  the  Revolution,  and  its 


FOR   MERE   CULTURE  383 

beginnings,  with  six  professors  and  a  handful  of  students, 
were  extremely  modest,  as  were  those  of  New  York  itself ; 
but  to-day  it  has  nearly  seven  hundred  instructors  on  its 
faculty  list  and,  with  its  adjuncts,  Barnard  and  Teachers 
colleges,  and  its  schools  of  law  and  medicine,  over  eight 
thousand  students.  Its  student  body  is  made  up  from  all 
nationalities,  from  all  quarters  of  the  world,  and  the  sub- 
jects taught  include  almost  everything  dreamed  of  in  the 
science  of  pedagogics.  It  is  a  great  university,  and  it 
has  a  very  positive  influence  upon  New  York  life,  not- 
withstanding the  common  belief  that  the  city  is  only 
amenable  to  the  persuasion  of  business. 

Next  to  Columbia  comes  New  York  University  with  sev- 
eral thousand  students  and  its  group  of  fine  buildings  on 
University  Heights ;  and  not  far  away  is  the  College  of  the 
City  of  New  York  (with  several  thousand  more  students), 
newly  equipped  and  newly  housed  on  Washington  Heights. 
These  are  the  principal  colleges,  and  yet  there  might  be 
others  mentioned,  like  St.  John's  College  and  St.  Francis 
Xavier,  with  many  professional  schools  of  high  rank. 
There  are  several  important  theological  seminaries  and 
law  schools,  with  colleges  of  medicine,  of  dentistry,  of 
pharmacy,  and  the  like,  outside  of  the  universities  proper. 
Besides  these  there  are  postgraduate  schools,  corre- 
spondence schools,  summer  schools,  university-extension 
schools,  trade  and  training  schools.  In  fact,  if  one  had 
the  actual  statistics  for  all  the  educational  doings  in  the 


384  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

city  they  would  go  far  in  bolstering  up  an  argument  to 
prove  that  New  York  was  school  mad. 

The  professional  and  trade  schools,  like  the  business 
colleges  that  flourish  on  every  block,  are  more  or  less 
designed  to  fit  the  student  for  money-making;  but  the 
bulk  of  the  study  in  New  York  is,  perhaps,  more  for  cul- 
ture than  for  commerce.  At  any  rate,  a  large  part  of  it 
is  never  used  as  a  means  of  gain,  but  rather  as  a  means  of 
understanding  and  appreciating  life.  There  are  plenty 
of  people  in  New  York  who  think  in  terms  of  philosophy 
though  engaged  most  of  their  time  in  details  of  trade. 
Gaining  a  livelihood  is  not  incompatible  with  living  intel- 
lectually, and  knowing  how  to  figure  out  a  commission 
does  not  necessarily  mean  an  ignorance  of  everything 
else  in  existence. 

But  the  world  does  not  care  to  consider  statistics  of 
education,  nor  does  it  like  the  revising  of  its  opinions. 
It  made  up  its  mind  long  ago  that  New  York  was  a  busi- 
ness center;  and,  success  in  one  department  usually 
arguing  failure  in  every  other  department,  it  followed, 
naturally  enough,  that  New  York  was,  outside  of  business, 
a  woful  ignoramus.  A  reputation,  whether  deserved 
or  not,  is  a  difficult  thing  to  get  rid  of.  No  matter  how 
much  London  or  Paris  may  grow  in  grace  or  change  in 
appearance,  its  reputation  for  ugliness  or  beauty,  for 
dirt  or  cleanliness,  for  piety  or  wickedness,  goes  right  on 
in  the  rut  of  a  hundred  years  ago.    Chicago,  for  example, 


Pl.  87. — College  of  City  of  Nf.w  York 


FOR  MERE  CULTURE  385 

has  the  name  of  being  a  sordid  spot  of  earth  with  a  pack- 
ing-house soul,  a  wheat-pit  mind,  and  a  taste  for  things 
of  magnitude  rather  than  of  quality;  but  one  wonders 
just  what  percentage  of  its  people  are  so  constituted. 
Is  Chicago,  as  a  whole,  more  avid  of  the  dollar  than  any- 
other  city,  here  or  elsewhere?  Has  it  less  taste  than 
Cincinnati,  or  more  love  of  the  grandiose  than  San  Fran- 
cisco? Again,  Boston's  proximity  to  Harvard  has  given 
it  the  name  of  being  our  first  city  in  culture,  as  Philadel- 
phia's connection  with  the  early  government  of  the  coun- 
try has  established  its  reputation  for  family  traditions; 
but  is  it  a  fact  that  Boston  always  asks:  What  do  you 
know?  or  Philadelphia:  Who  were  your  grand-par- 
ents? Are  not  such  questions  asked  occasionally  in 
every  city  of  the  country? 

By  the  same  rumor-tongue  the  stranger  in  New  York 
is  told  that  the  only  inquiry  made  here  is  as  to  the  extent 
of  one's  wealth;  but,  outside  of  the  business  world,  how 
many  people  ask  that  question  seriously?  And,  when 
asked,  how  many  people  care  about  what  answer  is  given  ? 
Is  it  not  a  fact  that  many  a  prominent  citizen  in  New 
York,  many  a  highly  esteemed  leader  in  science,  literature, 
or  the  public  service,  is  remarkable  for  poverty  rather 
than  riches?  Even  in  the  smart  world  of  fashionable 
society  there  are  scores  of  people  who  have  no  money  to 
speak  of,  and  yet  are  welcomed  for  their  manners  or  their 
taste  or  their  mentality.    In  fact,  fashionable  society, 

2c 


386  THE  NEW  NEW   YORK 

and  the  man  in  the  street  who  perhaps  is  not  society  in 
any  sense,  join  in  admiration  of  the  poor  man,  especially 
if  he  is  a  person  of  intellectual  and  moral  quality.  And, 
by  way  of  contrast,  who  does  not  know  his  group  of  mil- 
lionaires in  the  city  who  are  absolutely  ignored  in  the 
city's  life  —  people  who  have  nothing  to  their  credit  but 
a  bank  account,  and  who  never  rise  to  any  position 
whatever  ? 

The  truth  is  that  in  those  things  that  stand  for  American 
ideals  or  their  absence.  New  York  is  not  very  different 
from  any  other  city  in  the  United  States.  It  has  Boston's 
culture,  and  Philadelphia's  longing  after  immortality 
through  ancestor  worship,  only  trebled  and  quadrupled 
numerically.  It  has  also  Chicago's  wheat-pit  mind  and 
love  of  sheer  bigness,  but  once  more  the  disposition  is 
doubly  intensified  by  numbers.  None  of  these  cities 
have  been  exactly  reputed,  for  the  single  sentence  that  is 
supposed  to  epitomize  is  always  extravagant  in  statement. 
The  cities  have  good,  bad,  and  indifferent  qualities,  all 
mixed  together;  and,  like  the  average  American  citizen, 
they  are  perhaps  neither  very  good  nor  yet  very  bad,  but 
of  a  middle  quality.  New  York  is  larger  and  contains 
more  possibilities  for  good  and  for  evil  than  the  others  — 
that  is  about  the  only  difference. 


Pl.  88.  —  Hall  of  Fame,  University  of  New  York 


THE   ISLANDS 


Q 
S 

> 

CVJ 

w 
ifl 
o 

s 
io 

CjU 
< 

o 
o 


mfb 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

THE    ISLANDS 

If  New  York  has  little  repute  as  a  city  of  culture,  it  has 
perhaps  still  less  as  a  city  of  brotherly  love.  Its  head 
may  be  thought  shrewd  enough  in  business  matters,  but 
whoever  accused  the  city  of  having  a  heart  or  a  soul? 
Who,  for  instance,  thinks  of  it  as  wasting  any  effort  or 
energy  on  the  unfortunate,  the  unsuccessful,  the  in- 
competent ?  The  prevalent  belief  is  that  those  who  can- 
not swim  go  down  in  the  big  maelstrom,  and  no  one  in  the 
city  puts  out  a  hand  to  save  them.  But,  once  more,  the 
prevalent  belief  is  wrong. 

It  is  doubtful  if  any  other  city  in  the  world  does  as  much 
for  humanity  through  goodness  of  heart  as  this  same  city 
of  New  York.  Its  charities  are  extraordinary  in  their 
number  and  their  extent.  The  New  York  Charities  Di- 
rectory, which  contains  a  classified  and  descriptive  list 
of  the  philanthropic,  educational,  and  religious  resources 
of  the  city,  is  a  six-hundred-page  volume  entirely  filled 
with  the  addresses  and  officers  of  the  various  institutions. 
Tolman  and  Hemstreet's  Better  New  York  is  a  three- 
hundred-page  book  giving  the  places  where  help  of  one  sort 

389 


390  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

or  another  is  obtainable.  From  it  one  gathers  the  impres- 
sion that  there  is  hardly  a  block  in  the  city  that  does  not 
contain  a  place  of  refuge  of  some  name  and  nature  for  the 
sick,  the  weary,  or  the  out-of-work.  This  is  all  more  or 
less  organized  charity,  administered  by  societies,  or  by  the 
city  itself.  Add  to  it  the  giving  and  the  helping  not  put 
down  in  books,  the  good-intentioned  efforts  of  thousands 
of  people  in  an  individual  capacity,  and  the  charity  work 
of  the  city  takes  on  vast  proportions.  It  seems  as  though 
almost  every  other  person  in  the  city  was  being  helped, 
or  "uplifted,"  or  given  "a  chance"  for  life  and  happiness. 

That  much  of  this  charity  is  mistaken  in  purpose  and 
does  more  harm  than  good  may  be  quite  true.  Half  the 
cities  in  the  country,  by  their  indiscriminate  charity,  have 
pauperized  their  poorer  citizens,  just  as  half  the  cities 
themselves  have  been  pauperized  by  the  gifts  of  milhon- 
aires.  The  proper  way  to  help  humanity  is  not  to  feed  it, 
clothe  it,  and  carry  its  burdens,  but  to  insist  upon  its  help- 
ing itself.  However,  that  is  not  matter  for  present  discus- 
sion. The  point  that  would  be  made  is  that  New  York, 
foolishly  or  otherwise,  gives  to  charity  in  figures  that  are 
almost  incredible ;  helps  the  needy  with  more  hands  than 
a  Hindu  god ;  and  does  it  through  pure  kindness  of  heart, 
through  sympathetic  feeling  for  humanity  —  a  wish  to 
make  others  better  and  happier. 

It  must  not  be  inferred  from  this  that  all  New  York's 
helping  is  of  a  fooUsh  and  unconsidered  nature.     On  the 


Pl.  89.  —  Bedloe's  Island  —  Statue  of  Liberty 


THE   ISLANDS  391 

contrary,  the  bulk  of  it  is  carefully  planned  and  exactly  car- 
ried out  in  accordance  with  the  best  sociological  principles. 
The  sick  and  disabled  are  always  to  be  looked  after,  cost 
what  it  may,  and  consequently  the  hospital  is  always  a 
necessity ;  but  its  management  is  to  be  economic  as  well  as 
therapeutic.  Just  so  with  the  criminal  and  vicious  classes, 
the  insane,  the  foundlings,  the  aged,  the  crippled.  They 
must  be  housed  in  jails  or  penitentiaries,  prisons  or  asy- 
lums, homes  or  retreats ;  but  while  liberality  must  prevail 
the  cost  is  to  be  exactly  counted,  and  the  results  obtained 
are  to  be  accurately  reported.  This  is  not  a  matter  of 
charity  alone,  but  of  government,  of  the  best  municipal 
administration. 

One  expects  scientific  management  in  the  large  hospitals, 
of  which  the  borough  of  Manhattan  has  some  seventy-five 
or  more  —  some  of  them  endowed,  and  many  of  them  ad- 
ministered by  trustee  boards  composed  of  prominent 
citizens.  They  command  the  best  surgical  and  medical 
talent  in  the  land,  and  they  are  more  or  less  free  to  patients 
of  any  race  or  color.  Such  institutions  as  St.  Luke's, 
Roosevelt,  the  New  York,  the  J.  Hood  Wright  Memorial, 
the  Presbyterian  hospitals,  need  neither  apology  nor  de- 
scription ;  they  are  famed  for  their  excellence. 

Bellevue  and  the  various  hospitals  on  Blackwell's 
Island  belong  to  the  city,  belong  in  the  Department  of 
Public  Charities,  and  are  just  as  efficiently  administered 
as   the  Roosevelt  or  Presbyterian  types  in  Manhattan. 


392  THE   NEW   NEW  YORK 

The  visitor  to  them  will  find  little  that  he  may  take  ex- 
ception to.  The  buildings  answer  their  purpose  well,  the 
service  is  efficient,  the  machinery  the  most  modern. 
There  are  homoeopathic  as  well  as  allopathic  hospitals, 
maternity  and  tuberculosis  hospitals,  alcoholic  and  nerv- 
ous-disease hospitals,  with  hospitals  for  the  incurables 
and  convalescent,  and  a  training  school  for  nurses. 

The  efficiency  shown  in  these  city  hospitals  is  carried 
out  in  the  other  institutions  on  Blackwell's  Island.  The 
workhouse  is  large,  clean,  and  decent;  the  asylums  are 
comfortable  and  commodious ;  and  as  for  the  penitentiary 
with  its  twelve  hundred  inmates,  it  is  healthful,  sanitary, 
and  orderly  in  every  way.  That  much  is  to  be  said  also 
for  the  institutions  farther  up  the  river,  where  the  delin- 
quents and  the  young  degenerates  are  housed,  taught  to 
work,  and,  in  measure,  reformed. 

The  islands  where  these  institutions  are  located  are  in 
summer  the  coolest  and  the  greenest  spots  in  the  city, 
and  at  any  season  they  are  beautiful  in  their  settings. 
All  of  which  puts  the  notion  into  one's  head  that  the  city 
has  given  up  to  its  crippled  and  aged,  its  thugs  and  thieves, 
its  paupers  and  prisoners,  the  most  livable  and  lovable 
portions  of  the  town,  keeping  for  itself  only  some  flat  and 
rather  hot  districts  on  the  upper  avenues.  This  looks 
like  a  great  deal  of  self-denial  in  favor  of  the  outcast ;  but, 
unfortunately,  the  motive  will  not  bear  critical  analysis.  It 
is  to  be  feared  that  the  New  Yorkers  put  the  prisoners  and 


THE   ISLANDS  393 

the  paupers  on  the  islands  because  no  one  else  wanted  those 
spots.  They  were  waste  places  that  could  be  spared  very 
readily;  and  besides,  over  there  ''the  slovenly  unhand- 
some corse"  could  not  come  betwixt  the  wind  and  the  no- 
bility. People  do  not  want  their  public  institutions  too 
close  to  them. 

As  for  islands  near  a  city,  they  have  never  been  popular 
resorts,  except  for  picnic  parties.  Humanity  of  the  hermit 
variety  occasionally  exists  upon  them ;  but  the  true  city- 
dweller  is  a  person  of  gregarious  tastes  and  loves  to  flock 
along  a  dusty  street  rather  than  a  water  front.  Moreover, 
the  islands  are  inaccessible,  hard  to  come  and  go  from, 
and,  also,  they  are  ''dreadfully  lonely."  But  they  are  good 
healthful  places  for  the  indigent  and  the  aged,  and  admi- 
rable spots  in  which  to  bring  sinners  to  repentance.  Hence 
their  appropriateness  for  prisons  and  hospitals.  Let  the 
blind  and  the  halt  have  them.  So  long  as  the  free  citizen 
can  smell  gasolene  and  see  asphalt  on  Fifth  Avenue,  he 
will  not  miss  the  sea  breezes  and  green  grass  of  the  islands. 

The  New  York  people  have  always  been  leaving  the  best 
places  behind  them  in  their  rush  for  the  spot  that  is  for  the 
moment  the  most  frequented  or  fashionable.  In  the 
ancient  days  they  abandoned  the  Battery,  one  of  the 
finest  residential  sites  in  the  city,  to  crowd  around  City 
Hall  Park  and  Warren  Street.  Then  they  retreated,  step 
by  step,  along  the  shopways  and  avenues,  from  Bleecker 
Street  through  Union  and  Madison  squares  and  Bryant 


394  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

Park  to  the  Central  Park,  where  for  the  moment  they  are 
pausing  to  catch  breath.  As  for  the  Riverside  Drive,  it 
has  been  recently  discovered,  and  declared  beautiful; 
but  many  people  think  it  ''quite  impossible"  as  a  place  of 
residence  because  one's  friends  will  not  come  out  there  to 
call !  Morningside  Park,  again,  is  pretty,  good  enough 
for  a  group  of  college  buildings  to  face  upon,  or  for  a 
Harlem  promenade,  but  much  too  far  from  the  Plaza. 

Such  fancies  have  bothered  New  Yorkers  in  the  past, 
and  are  doing  so  to-day.  Under  the  circumstances  it  is  not 
to  be  wondered  at  that  no  one  wants  the  islands,  and  that 
they  have  been  given  over  to  various  undesirable  citizens 
who  are  kept  in  more  or  less  restraint  by  a  water  front  and 
a  stone  wall.  Instead  of  being  parked  and  used  by  the 
public,  like  the  beautiful  Margarethen-Insel  at  Buda-Pesth, 
they  have  been  utilized  and  rendered  forbidding  by  the 
city  or  national  government.  Up  the  river  following  the 
prisons  and  asylums  there  is  a  decent  little  island  doing 
service  as  a  potter's  field,  and  not  far  from  it,  on  another 
island,  the  city  is  building  a  veritable  mountain  out  of 
street  refuse.  Down  the  bay  the  smaller  islands  are  given 
over  to  immigrants  and  quarantine  patients,  or  guns  and 
forts,  or  smells  and  factories. 

It  is  something  of  a  disgrace  to  New  York  in  general, 
and  the  borough  of  Richmond  in  particular,  that  Staten 
Island,  altogether  the  most  -beautifully  located  ground  in 
or  about  the  greater  city,  should  be  almost  surrounded 


THE   ISLANDS  395 

at  its  water's  edge  by  smoke-belching  factories.  No  one 
wishes  to  question  the  value  and  necessity  of  factories,  even 
though  they  do  smoke  and  smell  disagreeably;  but  why  have 
them  at  the  harbor  entrance  where  all  the  world  comes  in 
or  goes  out  ?  And  why  should  they  occupy  the  most  at- 
tractive site  in  the  greater  city  when  there  are  so  many 
other  places  that  would  answer  their  purpose  just  as 
well? 

Of  course,  these  factories  go  along  with  the  commerce 
of  the  port  and  contribute  to  it,  and  on  gray  days  they  are 
picturesque  enough  with  their  tall  chimneys  trailing  steam 
and  smoke  into  the  mist ;  but  some  of  the  residents  of 
Staten  Island  would  gladly  exchange  the  profits  and  the 
pictures  they  make  for  less  soot  and  a  clearer  air.  As  it  is, 
another  kind  of  exchange  is  being  made.  Many  of  the  in- 
habitants are  moving  away,  and  to-day,  on  the  west  side  of 
the  island,  one  may  see  deserted  mansions  with  sagging 
roofs,  leaning  columns,  and  broken  windows,  the  very 
paint  being  eaten  from  them  by  the  smoke-gases  of  oil  and 
chemical  factories  coming  from  across  the  Kill  von  KuU 
and  Arthur  Kill. 

But  for  this  almost  complete  circle  of  nuisances  Staten 
Island  would  be  an  ideal  spot  for  suburban  residences, 
for  little  towns,  perhaps  for  a  great  city.  In  its  extreme 
length  it  is  thirteen  miles  and  in  its  greatest  width  eight 
miles,  there  being,  all  told,  some  sixty  square  miles  of  it. 
It  is  greatly  diversified  by  hills,  some  of  them  four  hundred 


396  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

feet  high ;  and  from  their  ridges  and  summits  wonderful 
views  are  obtained.  To  the  east  is  the  Narrows  with  the 
Upper  and  Lower  bays,  and  all  that  that  implies  in  pass- 
ing ships  and  sails.  Here  the  transatlantic  steamers,  the 
coasters,  the  schooners,  the  round-the-Horn  ships  come 
and  go  all  day  long.  Far  out,  beyond  Sandy  Hook  and  the 
Ught-ship,  the  black  smoking  funnels  and  the  gray  sails 
can  be  seen  rising  from  the  sea  as  they  come  or  sinking 
below  the  verge  as  they  go.  Over  the  Narrows,  over 
Coney  Island,  over  Long  Island,  the  view  extends;  but 
ever  the  eyes  keep  returning  to  the  distant  sea,  the  trail 
of  smoke,  the  glint  of  sails  along  the  rim.  To  the  south 
are  the  hills  of  Navesink  and  the  low  shores  of  New  Jersey, 
to  the  west  the  marshes,  and  to  the  northeast  the  distant 
New  York. 

The  interior  of  Staten  Island  is  one  of  the  most  positive 
contrasts  one  can  meet  with  in  the  greater  city.  It  is 
difficult  to  realize  that  the  woods  and  ponds,  the  farms  and 
gardens  and  country  places,  that  one  sees  over  there,  are 
really  a  part  of  New  York.  It  is  like  a  country  district 
in  the  Mohawk  Valley,  with  plowed  fields,  meadows, 
cattle,  and  timbered  hilltops.  The  woods  and  fields  are 
not  trimmed  or  swept  or  bridle-pathed  or  terraced  or  laid 
out  for  tennis  and  golf.  It  is  not  a  park ;  it  is  what  is  left 
of  primeval  nature.  Daisies  are  growing  in  the  lowlands, 
violets  are  blooming  along  the  wood  roads,  and  wild  roses 
are  nodding  and  bending  along  the  fences.    The  brooks 


Pi^ 


P^ 


THE   ISLANDS  397 

find  their  own  way  to  the  sea,  the  squirrels  hunt  their  own 
provender,  and  the  song  birds  build  their  nests  quite  un- 
observed. 

For  not  a  great  many  people  penetrate  into  the  interior 
of  Staten  Island.  It  is  the  borough  of  Richmond  and  has 
something  more  than  seventy  thousand  inhabitants;  but 
New  Yorkers  hardly  yet  regard  it  as  part  of  the  city, 
because  it  is  five  miles  from  the  Battery  and  has  to  be 
reached  by  a  ferry-boat,  time  twenty-two  minutes.  Oc- 
casionally the  man  in  the  motor  goes  chasing  through  it  at 
breakneck  speed,  seeing  nothing  except  the  signboards 
of  the  automobile  club ;  but  those  who  come  over  to  the 
island  for  a  quiet  stroll  along  the  wood  roads  and  through 
the  fields  are  very  few.  The  city  dweller  likes  to  think 
about  such  things  when  reading  his  evening  paper  by 
the  fire,  and  to  hear  him  talk  on  occasion  one  might 
imagine  that  in  the  city  he  was  in  durance  vile;  but 
at  heart  he  does  not  care  too  much  for  nature.  He 
likes  people  better  than  stumps,  and,  consequently,  takes 
the  suburbs  and  the  islands  in  homoeopathic  doses. 

Staten  Island  from  a  steamer's  deck  coming  up  the  bay 
looks  almost  like  fairyland.  Everything  about  it  is  bright 
and  sparkling,  the  greenswards  of  Forts  Tompkins  and 
Wadsworth  —  about  as  gun  proof  as  so  many  golf  bunkers 
—  are  graceful,  and  the  quarantine  station  seems  a  haven 
of  refuge  cut  out  of  a  picture  book.  Moreover,  that  part 
of  the  island  is  comparatively  free  of  factories  and  the  air  is 


398  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

passing  clear.  Even  the  barren  little  quarantine  islands 
lying  down  in  the  Lower  Bay  have  a  romantic  or  pictur- 
esque look  seen  through  that  air,  and  under  that  brilliant 
sunlight.  Yet,  strange  to  relate,  there  has  always  been  a 
fight  on  hand  to  keep  these  islands  and  waters  of  the 
harbor  entrance  from  being  polluted  or  infected  or 
destroyed.  At  one  time  scows  dumped  refuse  there; 
now  sewage,  factory  drainage,  and  smallpox  patients  lay 
claim  to  them.  And  still  they  survive  as  things  of  beauty 
to  gladden  the  eye  of  the  returning  traveler  and  make  him 
proud  of  his  native  land. 

The  islands  in  the  Upper  Bay  are  better  known,  but  not 
much  more  frequented  than  those  in  the  East  River. 
Bedloe's  Island  catches  its  daily  tale  of  tourists  who 
go  there  to  see  the  Statue  of  Liberty  by  Bartholdi; 
but  few  natives  of  the  city  have  ever  set  foot  upon 
it.  It  used  to  be  a  place  of  execution  —  a  suggestion  of 
how  the  forefathers  of  the  present  citizen  regarded  the 
beauty  spots  in  the  harbor.  Now  it  is  only  famous  for  its 
statue,  which  would  have  looked  so  much  better  almost 
anywhere  else.  It  should  have  been  planted  squarely  at 
the  extreme  end  of  the  Battery,  where  the  ships  coming  up 
the  harbor  could  have  passed  almost  under  it.  Then  its 
colossal  proportions  would  have  been  like  those  of  an 
Osiride  figure  in  front  of  an  Egyptian  temple — an  effective 
feature  in  introducing  the  massive  architecture  back  of  it. 
Placed  where  it  is  there  is  only  a  mild  wonder  about  its  size, 


THE   ISLANDS  399 

because  it  is  two  miles  off  from  the  Battery,  and  a  mile  or 
more  from  the  steamer  channel. 

Governor's  Island  is  a  picturesque  spot,  seen  from 
Brooklyn  Heights  or  the  Battery,  and  yet  another  place 
that  the  citizen  leaves  undisturbed.  The  United  States 
government  occupies  it  for  military  purposes,  and  admis- 
sion to  it  is  to  be  had  only  by  a  written  pass.  It  is  covered 
with  trees,  officers'  quarters,  parade  grounds,  and  guns. 
There  are  some  harbor  defenses  located  there,  and  on  the 
western  side  is  old  Castle  William,  a  cheese-box  fort  made 
of  sandstone,  which  is  now  used  as  a  prison,  presumably 
because  it  is  good  for  nothing  else.  The  island  is  not  a 
martial-looking  camp.  To-day  it  is  quite  as  peaceful  as 
its  neighbor,  the  gunless  Battery  of  bellicose  birth. 

The  best  known  and  most  frequented  of  all  the  islands 
has  not  now  the  slightest  characteristic  of  an  island.  It  is 
the  fag-end  of  a  sand  spit  pushed  out  into  the  Lower  Bay, 
and  is  called  Coney  Island  ^  possibly  because  in  the  memory 
of  man  no  conies  were  ever  known  there  or  elsewhere  in  the 
eastern  United  States.  Originally  there  was  quite  a  strip 
of  this  sand  spit  extending  along  the  south  shore  of  Long 
Island  and  cut  here  and  there  by  inlets.  Now  it  is  divided 
into  different  localities  with  names  like  Manhattan  Beach, 
Rockaway,  and  Brighton  Beach.  The  western  extremity 
of  it  only  is  known  as  Coney  Island.     Years  ago  it  was  re- 

*  The  Dutch  of  it  was  "Conijnen  Eylant. "  The  rabbits  upon  it  were 
doubtless  mii  iaken  for  conies. 


400  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

sorted  to  as  a  bathing  beach,  but  in  more  recent  times  it 
has  passed  into  a  show  place  where  all  sorts  of  freaks  and 
fads  are  seen  and  queer  spectacular  entertainments  are 
given.  It  is  the  home  of  Mardi  Gras ;  it  is  the  Pike,  the 
Midway,  and  the  Great  White  Way  all  combined.  It  nods 
by  day  but  wakes  up  at  twilight  with  thousands  of  electric 
lights  in  dazzling  forms,  and  scores  of  variety  shows  to 
please  the  multitude.  Its  easy  access  by  railway  from 
New  York,  and  its  cool  nights  in  summer,  make  it  a 
favorite  stamping  ground  for  the  gilded  youth  of  the  city, 
who  go  to  it  in  crowds  and  mobs  —  sometimes  over  a 
hundred  thousand  a  day.  But  there  is  nothing  very 
unique  about  it.  Every  city  of  any  size  has  some  such 
place  where  young  heads  are  for  a  time  made  less  con- 
scious of  their  emptiness. 

Over  in  Jamaica  Bay  to  the  east  of  Coney  Island  there 
are  plenty  of  genuine  islands,  belonging  to  the  greater  city, 
that  are  not  doing  service  of  any  kind.  Eventually  these 
little  sand-and-mud  areas  in  the  bay  may  be  turned  into 
dock  foundations,  and  a  new  port  for  New  York  built 
around  them ;  but  just  now  the  natives  dig  clams  on  them, 
and  hunters  in  long  boots  sometimes  gun  over  them  for 
snipes  and  ducks.  They  are  still  in  a  state  of  nature, 
though  within  the  city's  limits  and  not  twelve  miles  from 
the  high  ridge  of  sky-scrapers  on  Lower  Broadway. 

Always  contrasts,  contrasts,  contrasts.  In  New  York 
they  never  seem  to  cease  and  determine. 


THE    LARGER   CITY 


Pu  XXIV.  — THE    ELEVATED    ROAD   AT   ONE    HUNDRED   AND 
TWENTY  FIFTH    STREET 


QVIA   a35?aHUH    3H0   TA   aA09{    a3TAV3J3    3HT— .VIXX  .J^ 
T335IT2    HT3I3-YTHHWT 


CHAPTER   XXIV 

THE    LARGER   CITY 

Almost  everyone  in  New  York  who  goes  to  business 
in  the  morning  and  returns  somewhere  to  dine  and  sleep 
in  the  evening,  has  his  separate  tale  of  woe  to  tell  about  the 
annoyances  of  urban  travel.  If  he  lives  up  town,  along 
the  line  of  the  subway  or  the  elevated,  he  hangs  by  a  strap 
for  three-quarters  of  an  hour  in  going  and  coming ;  if  he 
commutes  from  Yonkers  or  beyond,  he  is  held  up  for  valu- 
able time  in  the  tunnel  or  at  the  Harlem  River ;  if  he  lives 
over  in  Brooklyn,  he  is  squeezed  night  and  morning  in  the 
bridge  and  tube  jams;  if  he  comes  from  across  the  Hud- 
son, he  is  continually  missing  his  boat.  Staten  Island  is 
quite  unattainable,  and  the  back  districts  of  Queens  are 
not  to  be  thought  of.  Rapid  transit  is  a  necessity,  but 
somehow  not  yet  a  comfortable  reality.  Moving  to  and 
from  the  centers  of  business  is  still  a  vexation  and  an 
annoyance.^ 

1  The  report  of  the  Public  Service  Commission  of  New  York  gives  the 
proportions  of  this  transit  question  in  startling  figures.  The  surface, 
elevated,  and  subway  companies  of  New  York  City  in  1908  carried  1,300,- 
000,000  passengers,  or  an  average  of  3,561,643  passengers  a  day.  This  is 
66  per  cent  more  than  the  total  of  passengers  carried  by  all  the  steam 
railroads  in  the  United  States.  Twenty  per  cent  of  this  travel  takes 
place  in  a  single  "  rush  "  hour,  which  accounts  for  the  crowding  of  the  cars. 

403 


404  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

This  comes  about  from  the  island  nature  of  Manhattan. 
There  is  water  on  three  sides  of  it  and  a  ridge  of  ground 
leading  out  on  the  fourth  side.  The  man  who  travels  to 
business  has  his  choice  of  taking  to  the  water  or  the  ridge. 
Neither  way  furnishes  him  with  very  rapid  transit,  because 
the  one  is  not  easily  skimmed  over,  and  the  other  is  always 
choked  with  people.  And  so  for  years  he  has  been  fretting 
and  fuming  over  the  difficulty  in  ^'getting  to  the  office,"  as 
he  expresses  it.  It  is  all  very  well  to  boast  about  the 
greater  city  with  its  dozens  of  towns,  its  three  hundred  or 
more  square  miles,  and  its  homes  for  everybody ;  but  how 
is  one  to  reach  them  from  the  lower  city?  Legislative 
enactment  put  these  outlying  districts  under  one  name 
and  government,  thinking  to  draw  them  closer  about  Man- 
hattan ;  but  they  are  still  lacking  in  facility  of  communica- 
tion, in  unity,  in  cohesiveness. 

If  one  considers  the  City  Hall  as  the  hub  of  the  city,  and 
draws  a  thirty-mile  rim  about  it  to  include  the  metropolitan 
districts,  it  becomes  at  once  apparent  that  what  the  whole 
wheel  needs  is  more  spokes.  That  would  not  only  make 
the  hub  and  the  rim  accessible,  but  unify  and  strengthen 
the  entire  structure.  It  is  not  necessary  that  the  spokes 
should  spread  out  upon  the  surface  in  new  avenues  and 
streets.  The  Baron  Haussmann  extravagance  of  cutting 
wide  boulevards  through  the  heart  of  Paris  could  hardly 
be  repeated  in  New  York ;  and  if  it  were,  the  new  routes 
along  the  ridge,  while  improving  the  situation,  would  help 


Pl.  93.  —  Fort  George  by  Night 


THE   LARGER  CITY  405 

travel  in  practically  only  one  direction.  They  would  act 
indirectly  as  feeders  to  the  bridge  entrances,  and  in  that 
way  perhaps  facilitate  traffic  in  another  direction,  yet  still 
leave  much  to  be  desired.  Surface  transit  has  its  decided 
limitations. 

As  for  the  East  River  bridges  themselves,  when  they  are 
all  in  working  order,  with  their  wide  exits  and  entrances 
and  their  through  trains,  they  will  reach  the  Brooklyn  side 
of  the  city  quite  effectively.  But  what  will  they  do  for 
travel  to  the  far  regions  of  Queens  or  Kings  ?  The  Man- 
hattan Bridge,  with  its  broad  avenue  to  the  sea,  will 
furnish  a  speedway  for  automobiles  only,  the  surface  roads 
do  not  represent  rapid  transit  in  any  modern  sense,  and 
the  elevated  roads  are  not  (or  should  not  be)  permanent 
lines  of  travel.  And  yet  the  need  for  rapid  transit  to  the 
outer  edge  of  the  circle  and  beyond  is  a  very  real  one. 
The  poor  man  (barring  the  East  Sider  who  loves  his  close 
quarters  and  cannot  be  induced  to  go  to  the  country) 
wants  cheaper  rent,  more  air,  and  more  play  ground  for  his 
children;  the  rich  man  wants  more  room  too,  with  less 
noise  and  dust  and  hurry.  Almost  everyone  wishes  to 
get  out  on  the  score  of  health  and  expense  but  is  kept  in  by 
the  score  of  time.  The  uppermost  question  is  one  of  the 
time-table.  How  many  minutes  does  it  take  to  reach  a 
given  place  ?  If  it  takes  forty-five  minutes  to  go  to  Harlem 
and  only  thirty  minutes  to  Flushing  or  Montclair,  then  the 
half-hour  districts  will  receive  the  commuter  majority. 


406  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

This  is  not  theory  but  fact  —  fact  in  process  of  demon- 
stration at  the  present  time,  as  it  has  been  for  thirty  years 
or  more.  In  the  early  seventies,  with  only  horse-cars  on 
the  side  avenues,  it  required  an  hour  or  more  to  go  from 
down  town  to  Forty-Second  Street;  and  during  snow 
storms  there  were  often  several  days  of  suspended  anima- 
tion, except  for  foot-passengers.  Washington  Square, 
lower  Fifth  Avenue,  University  and  Irving  places  were 
then  the  residence  districts,  and  Fifty-Ninth  Street  was  the 
outside  limit.  At  that  time  thousands  of  people  lived 
out  of  town,  thirty  miles  or  more  up  the  Hudson  or  over 
in  New  Jersey  or  Long  Island,  because  it  was  easier  to 
reach  those  regions  by  railway  than  upper  New  York 
by  horse-car. 

But  a  swift  change  came  with  the  building  of  the  Sixth 
Avenue  elevated  road  in  1878.  That  made  possible  the 
reaching  of  Forty-Second  Street  from  the  Battery  in, 
say,  forty  minutes  at  the  most.  The  response  from  the 
outside  districts  to  this  invitation  was  immediate.  The 
suburbanites  flocked  into  the  city,  located  themselves 
along  the  line  of  the  elevated,  and  hung  by  straps  morning 
and  evening  for  a  number  of  years  in  comparative  content. 
Upper  New  York  to  Harlem  and  beyond  was  built  up 
with  houses,  apartments,  and  hotels,  so  great  was  the 
inward  rush  of  people  wishing  to  live  within  three-quarters 
of  an  hour  of  the  business  district.  Naturally  the  capacity 
of  the  elevated  soon  became  taxed  to  the  utmost.     Electri- 


PL. 


THE   LARGER   CITY  407 

fying  the  road,  and  running  express  trains  night  and 
morning,  helped  but  did  not  fully  meet  the  situation. 
Finally  the  subway  was  built,  which  furnished  relief  again. 
But  now  even  the  subway  is  overcrowded.  Moreover, 
by  its  overcrowding,  its  time-making  capacity  has  been 
reduced,  and  thus  the  very  object  of  its  building  (rapid 
transit)  has  been,  not  defeated,  but  incompletely  realized. 

Yet  once  again  relief  has  been  furnished,  and  continues 
in  process  of  being  furnished.  The  subway  has  been  ex- 
tended under  the  East  River  to  Brooklyn,  the  McAdoo  tun- 
nels have  been  opened  under  the  Hudson  into  New  Jersey. 
It  is  now  easier  and  quicker  traveling  to  Long  Island  or 
New  Jersey  than  to  Harlem  or  the  Bronx,  and  much 
cheaper  living  there  than  in  upper  Manhattan.  Once 
more  the  adaptable  flat-dweller  and  whilom  suburbanite 
has  responded  to  the  new  opportunity.  He  has  no  particu- 
lar pride  of  place  or  love  of  locality.  He  is  a  business  man 
and  wants  the  machinery  of  his  life  to  produce  the  best 
results  with  the  least  waste  of  energy.  So  he  has  gone 
out  half-an-hour's  ride  to  the  Oranges  or  Flatbush  or  Ja- 
maica. The  result  is  that  the  strain  upon  the  up-town 
roads  is  temporarily  relieved;  the  percentage  of  gain  is 
now  in  favor  of  the  suburbs  rather  than  upper  Manhattan ; 
the  tunnels  are  working  admirably  in  readjusting  the  load, 
as  well  as  accommodating  the  people  with  swift  service. 

Inevitably  in  a  city  like  New  York  the  hurrying  crowd 
will  follow  the  shortest  and  most  direct  route.     It  will  not 


408  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

go  around  if  it  can  cut  across,  and  it  will  not  waste  time 
if  it  can  save  it.  Rapid  transit  is  something  it  cannot 
get  on  without  and  continue  to  transact  business  in  the 
lower  city.  It  seems  impossible  to  secure  quick  service 
on  the  surface.  The  ferry-boats  are  moribund,  the  street 
railways  are  for  local  traffic  only;  even  the  bridges  are 
comparatively  speaking  '^ short-haul"  affairs,  taking  up 
considerably  more  time  than  the  average  person  wishes 
to  give.  As  for  the  elevated,  it  served  its  purpose  for 
many  years  with  some  efficiency,  and  a  great  deal  of 
noise  and  dirt;  but  it  is  now,  or  soon  will  be,  more  of  a 
nuisance  than  a  need.  It  belongs  in  the  class  and  to  the 
period  of  telegraph  poles  and  overhead  wires,  and  should 
be  abolished  or  put  underground.  It  was  never  hand- 
some, and  it  has  never  been  possible  to  maintain  decent 
streets  and  houses  within  the  roar  and  shock  of  its  passing 
trains.  No  municipal  commission  seeking  to  beautify 
the  city  could  do  much  to  lessen  the  ugliness  of  such  a 
structure  crawling  through  the  streets.  Eventually  it 
will  be  taken  down  because  the  newer  means  of  transit 
will  outspeed  it. 

There  is  very  little  doubt  that  the  tube  is  the  solution 
of  the  suburban  and  long-distance  travel  problem.  It 
has  been  demonstrated  that  it  can  be  pushed  through 
almost  any  kind  of  ground.  Water,  quicksand,  river- 
silt,  solid  rock,  do  not  stop  it ;  weather  conditions  and 
surface  traffic  do  not  touch  it;    disputed  rights  of  way 


THE   LARGER  CITY  409 

and  depreciation  of  property  by  noise  and  dust  offer  no 
serious  menaces.  It  seems  the  ideal  method  of  transit 
in  New  York  because  it  can  be  run  in  any  direction. 
Put  our  imaginary  wheel,  with  its  thirty-  or  hundred- 
mile  rim,  underground,  build  tubes  along  the  radiating 
spokes  from  hub  to  rim,  with  exits  at  the  surface  wherever 
needed,  and  what  surface-planned  city  of  the  world  could 
equal  New  York  in  directness,  swiftness,  and  ease  of 
travel?  With  such  a  system  the  present  annoyances  of 
transit  would  vanish  into  thin  air. 

And  what  a  united  city,  a  far-reaching  city,  would  form 
above  those  radiating  burrows  in  the  ground !  The 
Greater  New  York  which  has  an  area  three  times  that  of 
London  and  ten  times  that  of  Paris,  would  then  be  a 
reality  rather  than  a  circle  on  the  map.  For  people 
would  build  along  the  new  lines  of  travel  (just  as  they 
have  been  doing  since  the  world  began),  and  the  new  city 
would  thus  be  knit  together  in  a  compact  whole.  More- 
over, its  future  growth  for  all  time  would  be  assured  by 
the  mere  widening  of  the  rim  and  the  extension  of  the 
tunnels.  There  would  practically  be  no  limit  to  its 
expansion. 

But  this  plan  completed  would  mean  the  greatest 
financial  and  engineering  venture  ever  undertaken  by  any 
community.  It  is  so  vast  in  scale  that  it  sounds  fanciful. 
Many  years  of  time,  thousands  of  human  lives,  millions 
upon  millions  in  money,  would  be  required  for  its  accom- 


410  THE  NEW   NEW   YORK 

plishment.  Probably  no  one  alive  to-day  would  see  its 
complete  fulfillment.  Yet  it  is  absolutely  certain  that 
New  York  has  even  now  started  upon  some  such  plan. 
It  is  perhaps  groping  a  little  blindly,  winding  somewhat 
erratically  in  its  tunnel  projects  down  under  the  rock 
and  water,  not  following  the  exact  plan  of  the  spoked 
wheel;  but  it  will  find  itself  and  eventually  follow  the 
shortest  routes  as  it  has  always  done.  There  seems 
nothing  impossible  in  the  venture,  not  even  the  money 
phase  of  it,  which  at  one  time  looked  rather  dark.^  Indeed, 
the  tunnels  already  pushed  through,  equipped,  and  work- 
ing are  the  very  best  proofs  of  its  possibility. 

The  subway  was  the  first  accomplished  fact  in  tunnels. 
It  was  opened  and  operated  from  the  City  Hall  to  One 
Hundred  and  Forty-Fifth  Street  in  1904.  The  next 
year  it  was  extended  under  the  Harlem  River,  into  the 
Bronx,  and  down  town  as  far  as  the  Battery.  Its  suc- 
cess was  immediate  —  the  demand  for  it  being  demon- 
strated by  its  use.  It  has  carried  as  high  as  nineteen 
million  passengers  in  a  single  month,  or  an  average  of 
633,000  each  day.  The  mere  fact  that  it  is  so  crowded 
(the  trains  follow  each  other  almost  like  the  buckets  in  a 
grain  elevator)  is  something  of  an  argument  for  its  speed 
and  its  comfort,  as  well  as  its  necessity.  The  express 
trains  average  thirty  miles  an  hour,  the  local  trains  some- 

^  Legislative  restrictions  in  the  granting  of  public  franchises  to  private 
parties  seemed  to  check  new  tunnel  enterprises  during  190S,  and  thereafter; 
but  there  has  recently  been  renewed  activity. 


;5 


w 


THE   LARGER  CITY  411 

what  less.  The  roadbed  is  excellent  and  the  steel  cars 
are  commodious,  notwithstanding  they  are  often  over- 
crowded by  standing  people.  The  air  of  the  tunnel  is 
hardly  the  free  breath  of  heaven,  but  it  is  not  discom- 
forting, and,  apparently,  not  unhealthful.  Nor  are  the 
strident  hum  of  the  electric  power  and  the  moving-picture 
flickering  of  lights  along  the  walls  as  the  train  rushes  by 
more  than  minor  annoyances.  The  passenger  soon  be- 
comes so  accustomed  to  such  sights  and  sounds  that  he 
neither  sees  nor  hears  them.  Of  course  the  subway 
lights  were  never  designed  as  an  improvement  upon  sun- 
shine, nor  its  electric  fans  put  in  to  rival  ocean  breezes. 
The  road  is  a  substitute  for  an  open-air  road,  and  it 
is  a  very  good  substitute,  especially  in  wet  or  cold 
weather. 

Whenever  an  extension  or  connection  of  the  subway 
is  added,  passengers  immediately  pour  through  it  like 
some  suddenly  loosed  head  of  water.  The  Brooklyn  ex- 
tension under  the  East  River  was  opened  in  February, 
1908,  and  at  once  began  carrying  over  one  hundred  thou- 
sand passengers  a  day.  A  similar  use  is  sure  to  follow 
the  projected  extensions  under  Lexington  Avenue  and 
on  the  West  Side.  The  more  routes  opened  the  more 
people  there  seem  ready  to  use  them.  New  ones  are 
being  built  as  fast  as  possible;  but  each  year  a  hun- 
dred thousand  new  people  come  into  the  town  and  the 
crowd  on  the  waiting  platform  is  always  growing. 


412  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

The  Hudson  and  Manhattan  (or  McAdoo)  tunnels  lead 
to  the  west  under  the  Hudson  River  and  are  enterprises 
apart  from  the  subway,  and  yet  they  are  planned  to 
connect  with  it  at  various  points,  and  no  doubt  will 
eventually  become  a  part  of  it.  There  are  four  tubes  in 
the  McAdoo  system.  Two  of  them  pass  down  Sixth 
Avenue  from  Thirty-Third  Street,  across  the  city  to  the 
west  at  Christopher  Street,  and  under  the  Hudson  River 
to  Hoboken,  where  they  are  continued  down  along  the 
various  railway  stations  to  Jersey  City.  The  other  two 
tunnels  are  from  the  Terminal  Building  in  Cortlandt 
Street  to  the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  station  in  Jersey 
City.  These  four  tubes  are  designed  to  carry  a  half-mil- 
lion passengers  a  day,  and  under  stress  could  probably 
accommodate  many  more.  Their  extensions  are  planned 
as  far  out  in  New  Jersey  as  Newark;  and  eventually 
they  will  supersede  the  ferries  on  the  Hudson,  in  the  same 
way  that  the  bridges  and  tunnels  on  the  East  River  have 
superseded  the  ferries  there. 

But  another  tunnel  system,  now  nearing  completion, 
is  of  perhaps  larger  proportions,  and  of  more  far-reaching 
importance  to  the  city,  than  anything  yet  projected. 
This  is  the  tunnel  and  terminal  project  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania Railroad.  Its  two  tubes  under  the  Hudson  are 
driven  through  and  connected  with  its  terminal  station 
at  Thirty-Fourth  Street;  the  extension  under  the  city, 
and  its  four  tubes  under  the  East  River  connecting  with 


Pl.  9().  —  I^uooklvn   Bridge  from   Ferry  Shed 


THE   LARGER   CITY  413 

the  Long  Island  Railroad,  are  completed ;  there  are  only 
the  track  system  and  station  arrangements  to  be  added. 
Then  a  great  trunk  railway  will  be  opened  under  the 
heart  of  the  city.  The  connection  with  the  Long  Island 
Railroad;  the  extension  of  that  road  through  the  borough 
of  Queens,  and  the  crossing  from  Long  Island  City  to  the 
Bronx  and  thus  up  into  New  England,  mean  exits  and 
entrances  to  the  east;  while  the  tunnel  under  Jersey 
City,  and  the  connections  out  beyond  the  Hackensack 
meadows  to  Harrison,  mean  exits  and  entrances  to  the 
west.  It  is  a  great  cross-section  system  that  will  render 
possible  such  through  railway  traffic  from  the  east,  west, 
and  south  as  has  never  before  been  known. 

The  cost  of  this  has  been  stupendous  in  time,  energy, 
and  money.  For  several  years  the  work  has  gone  on 
with  feverish  haste,  men  succeeding  men  by  the  thousands. 
There  has  been  no  stint  of  skill,  science,  energy,  perse- 
verance in  the  face  of  stubborn  circumstances  that  at 
times  threatened  defeat ;  and  there  has  been  no  question 
of  cost  with  nearly  a  hundred  millions  of  dollars  set  apart 
for  the  completion  of  the  project.  When  the  system  is  in 
operation,  a  thousand  trains  a  day  will  come  in  at  the 
Thirty-Fourth  Street  station.  The  maximum  capacity 
of  all  the  tubes  is  one  hundred  and  forty-four  trains  an 
hour.  Each  train  is  to  do  no  more  than  discharge  or 
take  on  passengers  at  Thirty-Fourth  Street,  and  is  then 
to  be  sent  under  the  East  River  to  the  Sunnyside  yards  at 


414  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

Long  Island  City,  where  it  is  to  be  received  and  sent  out 
again. 

Even  though  there  is  no  storage  room  for  cars  on  the 
tracks  under  Thirty-Fourth  Street,  there  are,  neverthe- 
less, four  miles  of  platforms  at  this  station  to  receive 
passengers,  which  means  that  the  railway  people  are 
preparing  to  handle  a  hundred  million  passengers  a  year. 
This  figure  is  too  large  for  the  average  mind  to  realize. 
We  have  gotten  into  a  habit  in  recent  years  of  talking 
glibly  about  '^millions,"  when  such  figures  are  almost 
unthinkable.  Yet  the  hundred  million  passengers  of 
the  Pennsylvania  Railroad  station  under  Thirty-Fourth 
Street  is  not  only  a  reasonable  estimate,  but  one  that 
will  surely  be  realized. 

The  safety  of  the  tunnels  has  already  been  sufficiently 
demonstrated.  The  Pennsylvania  tubes  are  put  together 
in  huge  iron  rings,  twenty-three  feet  in  diameter,  two  and 
a  half  feet  wide,  and  weighing  fifteen  tons  each.  They 
are  strengthened  by  two  feet  of  concrete,  and  are  con- 
sidered practically  indestructible.  The  motive  power 
in  all  of  the  tunnels  is  electricity,  and  the  air  in  them  is 
very  like  that  of  the  subway.  In  passing  through  them 
there  is  a  slight  descent  under  the  river,  to  be  noticed 
by  the  observant;  but  the  average  traveler  does  not 
know  whether  he  is  under  land  or  water.  He  reaches 
his  destination  swiftly  and  safely;  and  that,  ordinarily, 
is  his  only  interest.  He  gets  what  he  desires,  —  rapid 
transit,  —  and  a  very  satisfactory  quality  of  it  at  that. 


THE   LARGER   CITY  415 

It  is  perhaps  unnecessary  to  outline  the  further  tube- 
and-tunnel  projects  that  are  under  way  in  building,  like 
the  Steinway  tunnel ;  or  are  planned,  like  the  Interborough 
and  McAdoo  extensions,  the  Broadway-Lexington  Avenue 
route,  the  Interterminal  Belt  Line,  the  Center  Street  loop, 
and  the  Canal  Street  subway.  The  half-dozen  or  more 
already  in  existence  have  proved  that  this  is  initially  the 
most  expensive  but  ultimately  the  most  economical  and 
altogether  satisfactory  method  of  rapid  transit  that  can 
be  used  in  the  greater  city.  The  rush  in  toward  the 
center  each  morning  and  the  rush  out  each  night  must 
be  accepted  and  provided  for.  The  rivers,  since  they 
cannot  be  crossed  quickly,  should  be  crept  under;  the 
outlying  districts  should  be  brought  into  touch  with  the 
more  active  centers  of  the  city  and  made  to  yield 
more  service;  the  circle  city  of  the  map  should  be 
unified. 

There  is  very  little  doubt  that  the  tunnels  will  be  in- 
strumental in  producing  this.  Eventually  the  Greater 
New  York  should  be  a  homogeneous  unit,  brought  to- 
gether and  held  together  by  an  underground  wheel  every 
spoke  of  which  converges  and  diverges  from  the  central 
borough  of  Manhattan.  No  doubt  the  plan  will  undergo 
many  changes,  will  be  modified  many  times  until  it  bears 
perhaps  no  resemblance  to  a  wheel ;  and  yet  rapid  transit 
still  be  accomplished  by  following  the  general  principle 
of  radiation. 


TRAFFIC    AND    TRADE 


m^^m^&'^i- 


Pl.  XXV. -ALONG    RIVERSIDE    DRIVE 


HVIHQ    aai25?HVI5I    OHOJA-  .VXX  .jH 


Ji    ■r'-f-  ■     • 


'M 


si»^ 


IV- 


J 


CHAPTER  XXV 

TRAFFIC  AND  TRADE 

The  ancient  cities  of  the  world  were  never  seriously 
troubled  by  matters  of  rapid  transit.  They  were  built 
originally  as  places  of  refuge,  and  the  inhabitants,  secure 
behind  walls  of  stone,  finally  adopted  them  as  permanent 
living  places.  Travel  through  the  city,  and  through  the 
gates  of  the  city,  was  largely  on  foot.  The  dusty  caravan 
stopped  without  the  walls.  The  camel  did  not  pass 
through  the  eye  of  the  needle.  Goods  were  brought  into 
the  bazaars  and  the  markets  on  the  backs  of  porters. 
Everything  moved  slowly.  Traffic  and  trade  were  very 
leisurely  affairs  in  the  Old  World. 

Even  in  the  present  era,  and  in  some  parts  of  modern 
Europe,  the  question  of  time  would  seem  of  minor  impor- 
tance. Haste  is  generally  spoken  of  as  ''unseemly,"  and 
travel  means  something  of  days  and  distance.  The 
city  is  still  a  home  for  inhabitants,  rather  than  a  hive 
or  a  mart  for  workers.  The  railway,  like  the  caravan, 
stops  outside  the  walls.  A  station  within  the  city,  with 
its  accompaniment  of  rumbling  trains  and  roaring  via- 
ducts, would  be  disturbing  to  the  householders.      Only 

419 


420  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

a  few  of  the  larger  places,  like  London,  Paris,  and  Berlin, 
have  admitted  railways  into  the  heart  of  the  city,  have 
put  in  underground  tubes,  and  developed  the  more  modern 
means  of  transit.  They  are  slowly  waking  to  the  con- 
sciousness that  a  city  may  be  more  valuable  as  a  place 
of  trade  than  as  a  place  of  residence  —  a  consciousness 
that  has  been  with  New  York  for  many  years. 

If  the  suggestion  made  some  chapters  back  be  accepted, 
that  the  city  is  primarily  a  shop  or  a  factory,  then  it 
becomes  apparent  that  to  continue  successful  in  trade  it 
must  be  frequently  remodeled  or  newly  built.  Its  ma- 
chinery should  be  of  the  most  modern  type,  and  work 
with  the  greatest  efficiency.  Wide  entrances  to  the 
business  centers,  direct  communication  for  speed,  huge 
buildings  for  capacity,  unlimited  markets  for  barter  and 
sale,  are  necessary  parts  of  the  machinery.  It  is  not 
possible  to  lead  in  commerce  without  them.  New  York 
quite  understands  this,  but  has  always  been  hampered 
in  carrying  the  idea  into  practice  by  the  continuance  of 
the  old  residential  idea  —  the  force  of  tradition.  Re- 
cently it  has  begun  to  free  itself  and  develop  commercially, 
with  vast  projects  for  bulk  and  marvelous  schemes  for 
expedition.  The  turbulence  of  its  changes  and  improve- 
ments has  kept  the  older  city  in  bewilderment  for  twenty 
years.  It  is  fast  fitting  itself  to  be  the  one  master  trader 
of  the  world. 

This  inclination  toward  commerce  was  with  it  at  birth. 


Pl.  97.  —  West  Street  looking  North 


TRAFFIC   AND  TRADE  421 

The  site  of  Manhattan  was  discovered,  occupied,  and 
built  upon  by  traders,  because  it  was  a  place  naturally 
fitted  for  trade.  The  inherited  inclination  has  grown 
into  an  energy  of  enormous  power;  but  without  the 
natural  geographical  advantages  of  the  city  it  might  never 
have  developed.  The  harbor  with  all  its  difficulties  for 
rapid-transit  engineers,  is  the  natural  highway  of  the 
world's  ships  —  the  inlet  and  the  outlet  of  America's 
commerce.  The  ocean  water-ways  connecting  with  the 
inland  water-ways  in  continuous  lines  of  transportation, 
not  only  throughout  the  port  and  the  country  but  around 
and  about  the  globe,  have  made  the  city  the  logical  point 
of  arrival  and  departure.  With  these  natural  highways, 
supplemented  by  the  railways  and  other  transit  thorough- 
fares, it  is  easy  enough  to  understand  how  and  why  New 
York  should  become  the  great  terminal  station  of  traffic 
and  trade. 

And  be  it  remembered  that  traffic  and  trade  are  the 
breath  of  its  nostrils.  Its  face  has  always  been  set  that 
way.  One  has  but  to  think  for  a  moment  of  the  vast 
equipment  of  commerce  to  be  convinced  of  this  —  the 
ships,  the  docks,  the  bridges,  the  viaducts;  the  tunnels, 
subways,  tramways,  railways ;  the  elevators,  storehouses, 
mills,  factories;  the  exchanges,  banks,  depositories, 
treasuries;  the  thousands  of  business  buildings,  the 
hundreds  of  thousands  of  offices,  the  millions  of  people 
engaged  in  business  pursuits.     The  great  strain  of  the 


422  THE  NEW   NEW   YORK 

present  day  is  to  make  equipment  larger,  better,  more 
effective.  Bridges  and  tubes  follow  each  other  in  rapid 
succession ;  new  channels  are  being  dredged  to  the  ocean ; 
the  railways  to  the  north  and  east  are  building  great 
extensions ;  the  Chelsea  dock  improvement  and  the  huge 
Bush  Terminal  are  no  sooner  finished  than  plans  for 
enormous  city  docks  in  South  Brooklyn  and  at  Jamaica 
Bay  are  started;  the  subways  for  passengers  work  so 
effectively  that  immediately  a  subway  for  freight  that 
shall  put  an  underground  water-front  ring  about  the  city 
is  projected  and  financed.  Greater  enterprises,  larger 
plans,  more  capital,  more  wonderful  schemes,  are  con- 
tinually being  launched;  and  tall  buildings,  each  one 
more  sky-scraping  than  its  predecessor,  are  daily  breaking 
the  new  sky  line  of  the  city.  It  is  all  done  in  the  name 
of  business.  There  is  no  questioning  about  the  ruling 
passion  in  these  dominions. 

Yet  smitten  with  its  love  of  money,  working  night  and 
day  for  trade,  New  York  still  has  time  to  live  and  enjoy 
life  after  its  fashion.  The  creature  comforts  are  indulged 
in  with  extravagance,  by  those  who  live  along  the 
mid-ridge  district.  What  city  shall  you  find  with  such 
ornate  restaurants  and  such  luxurious  hotels?  They 
are  barbaric  in  their  prodigality  of  splendor.  Where 
shall  you  see  such  richly  furnished  apartments  and  houses, 
such  clubs  and  societies,  such  operas  and  theaters  ?  Again 
they  are  almost  savage  in  their  gilt  and  glitter.     Where 


TRAFFIC   AND  TRADE  423 

shall  you  meet  with  such  dresses  and  furs  and  jewels, 
such  equipages  and  liveries,  such  ballroom  magnificence, 
such  dinner-table  abundance?  Once  more  they  appear 
at  times  semi-gothic  in  their  pretension  and  arrogance. 
And  yet,  in  spite  of  the  suggestion  that  the  average  New 
Yorker  possesses  only  a  brain  and  a  body,  it  will  be  found 
that  he  has  a  soul  and  keeps  longing  for  higher,  nobler 
things.  He  aspires  to  art,  literature,  and  education; 
he  dreams  of  Apollo  and  of  the  Muses;  he  nurses  ethical 
and  social  ideals,  and  has  charity  for  all  the  world.  True 
enough,  he  erects  many  sky-scrapers  for  business  and 
frankly  dedicates  them  to  mammon,  but  he  also  builds 
many  fair  structures  to  fame  and  learning,  and  many 
high  temples  to  God. 

These  are  the  sharp  contrasts  that  give  the  city  such  a 
contradictory  character.  They  seem  quite  impossible 
of  synthesis  or  reconciliation,  because  they  are  not  one 
thing,  but  many  things  in  one.  Hence  the  difficulty  of 
trying  to  summarize  or  epitomize  either  the  place  or  the 
people.  After  a  few  generalizations  one  stands  lost  in 
wonder  at  the  tremendous  flux,  the  ever  increasing  scale 
in  changes,  the  restless  energy,  the  ceaseless  struggle  for 
greater  attainment.  This  year  we  are  astonished  by  the 
figures  of  passengers  carried,  freight  handled,  ships 
cleared;  of  bank  credits,  exchange  clearances,  trade 
balances;  of  buildings  erected,  tunnels  constructed, 
streets  opened.     But  next  year  the  figures  will  be  larger. 


424  THE   NEW   NEW   YORK 

the  output  more  enormous,  the  income  more  fabulous. 
The  wonder  of  to-day  becomes  the  commonplace  of  yes- 
terday; and  still  we  keep  mounting  higher  and  higher, 
moving  more  and  more  swiftly. 

What  shall  be  in  the  future  no  mar  dare  predict,  save 
in  figures  fantastic.  With  its  volume  and  energy,  its 
commerce  and  its  wealth,  who  shall  say  what  cloud-born 
fancies  may  not  be  realized  in  the  days  to  come !  A  few 
years  ago,  having  outgrown  its  sixty-eight  square  miles 
on  the  island  of  Manhattan,  the  city  expanded  into  an 
area  of  three  hundred  and  twenty-seven  square  miles. 
Shall  it  stop  there  ?  Men  called  visionaries  see  the  future 
port  of  New  York  at  Montauk  Point,  witl  all  Long  Island 
in  the  greater  ring.  Shall  it  come  to  pass?  No  one  can 
say.  And  yet,  again,  without  the  seer's  eye  or  the  proph- 
et's ken,  one  can  see  the  indication  and  the  suggestion. 
From  the  high  tower  of  the  Singer  or  the  Metropolitan 
Building  the  eye  travels  around  the  ring  and  sees  water- 
ways, landways,  bridgeways,  railways,  radiating  and 
crossing,  leading  outward  and  onward;  and,  following 
them  closely,  the  new  streets  and  buildings  of  the  growing 
city.  Who  knows  that  the  city  will  stop  at  the  thirty- 
mile  limit,  —  that  it  will  stop  at  all  ? 

There  is  indication  of  still  other  things.  New  York 
will  be  a  city  with  perhaps  more  grouping  about  munici- 
pal, business,  and  traffic  centers  than  now;  but  there 
is  no  suggestion  that  it  will  ever  become  a  formal  city, 
or  like  in  plan  to  any  other  place  that  has  ever  existed. 


i'L.  98.  — East  Rivkr  —  Brooklyn  Side 


TRAFFIC   AND  TRADE  425 

That  it  will  be  a  city  of  high  buildings  seems  certain; 
and  that  it  will  always  have  its  harbor  setting,  its  bril- 
liant light  and  color,  its  sea-blue  haze,  and  its  mountain- 
blue  air  can  hardly  be  doubted.  The  high  dome  and 
tower  ghttering  in  the  sun,  the  white  wall  half  lost  in 
shadow,  the  background  of  colored  minarets  projected 
against  the  blue  sky,  should  be  heightened  in  splendor 
by  the  increase  of  scale.  A  city,  magnificently  pictur- 
esque, should  be  the  result.  The  hkeness  to  Constanti- 
nople should  fade  out  as  too  diminutive  and  inadequate; 
the  resemblance  to  some  city  of  Arabian  Nights  fancy 
should  grow. 

In  the  time  to  come,  a  quarter  of  a  century  hence,  the 
traveler  returning  to  New  York  may  find  that  the  age  of 
wonders  has  not  passed.  The  city  should  be  more  awe- 
inspiring  then  than  ever  —  a  city  of  the  same  hurrying 
energy  perhaps,  devoted  to  business  still,  leavening  its 
life  with  the  humanities  here  and  there,  aspiring  to  men- 
tality and  even  to  righteousness;  but  always  a  city  of 
commerce,  of  display,  of  wealth  and  luxury,  of  color  and 
light.  The  greatest  port  on  any  sea,  with  the  wealth  of 
the  Americas  back  of  it,  it  should  outsoar  in  majesty  and 
outshine  in  splendor  any  other  city  of  the  modern  world. 
A  slighter  commerce  and  a  less  virile  energy  heaped  mag- 
nificence upon  Tyre  and  Carthage  and  Rome.  Why 
not  the  repetition  of  the  tale,  increased  a  hundred  fold, 
in  the  New  New  York? 


The  History  of  American  Art 

Edited  by  JOHN  C.  VAN  DYKE 

This  series  of  books  brings  together  for  the  first  time  the  materials  for  a 
history  of  American  art.  Heretofore  there  have  been  attempts  to  narrate 
some  special  period  or  feature  of  our  artistic  development,  but  the  narrative 
has  never  been  consecutive  or  conclusive.  The  present  volumes  begin  with 
colonial  times  and  bring  the  record  down  to  1906.  They  are  intended  to 
cover  the  graphic,  the  plastic,  the  illustrative,  the  musical,  and  the  architec- 
tural arts,  and  to  recite  the  results  in  each  department  historically  and  criti- 
cally. That  the  opinions  ventured  should  be  authoritative  the  preparation  of 
each  volume  has  been  placed  in  the  hands  of  an  expert  —  one  who  practices 
the  craft  whereof  he  writes.  The  series  is  therefore  a  history  of  American 
art  written  from  the  artist's  point  of  view,  and  should  have  special  value  for 
that  reason. 

The  History  of  American  Sculpture 

By  LoRADO  Taft,  Member  of  the  National  Sculpture  Society.  With  12 
photogravures  and  many  text  illustrations.  Price  %6.00  net 

The  History  of  American  Music 

By  Louis  C.  Elson,  Musical  Editor  of  the  Boston  Advertiser  ;  author  of 
"Our  National  Music,"  etc.  With  12  photogravures  and  many  text 
illustrations.  Pyice  %^.oo  net 

The  History  of  American  Painting 

By  Samuel  Isham,  Associate  of  National  Academy  of  Design,  Member  of 
the  Society  of  American  Artists.  With  12  photogravures  and  many  text 
illustrations.  Pyice  %j.oo  net 

The  History  of  American  Illustration, 
Engraving  and  Etching 

By  Joseph  Pennell,  author  of  "  Pen  Drawing  and  Pen  Draughtsmen," 
"Lithography  and  Lithographers,"  "Modern  Illustration,"  etc.  Illus- 
trated with  original  materials.  Jyi  Preparation 

The  History  of  American  Architecture 

By  Clarence  Howard  Blackall,  A.M.,  Fellow  of  the  American  Institute 
of  Architects,  Member  of  Architectural  League,  Boston  Society  of  Archi- 
tects, etc.     With  12  photogravures  and  many  text  illustrations. 

In  Preparation 

THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS,   64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOEK 


ILLUSTRATED  DESCRIPTIONS   OF 
AMERICAN  PLACES  AND  PEOPLE 


BOSTON:  THE  PLACE  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

By  M.  A.  DeWolfe  Howe. 

With  over  one  hundred  illustrations  including  many  from  pen  drawings  executed 
especially  for  this  volume  by  L.  A.  Holman. 

Travel  series,  decorated  cloth,  boxed,  %2.oo  net,  by  mail,  $2.20 
CHARLESTON:    THE   PLACE   AND   THE  PEOPLE 

By  Mrs.  St.  Julien  Ravenel. 
Illustrated  from  photographs  and  from  drawings  by  Vernon  Howe  Bailey. 

Travel  series,  decorated  cloth,  boxed,  $2.00  net,  by  mail,  $2.20 

NEW  ORLEANS:  THE  PLACE  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

By  Grace  King. 
With  eighty-three  illustrations  from  drawings  by  FRANCES  E.  JONES. 

Travel  series,  decorated  cloth,  boxed,  $2.00  net,  by  mail,  %2.20 

PHILADELPHIA:  THE  PLACE  AND  THE  PEOPLE 

By  Agnes  Repplier. 
With  eighty-two  illustrations  from  drawings  by  ERNEST  C.  Peixotto. 

Travel  series,  decorated  cloth,  boxed,  %2.oo  net,  by  mail,  %2.20 

STAGE   COACH  AND   TAVERN  DAYS 

By  Mrs.  Alice  Morse  Earle. 
With  over  one  hundred  and  fifty  illustrations. 

Travel  series,  decorated  cloth,  boxed,  $2.00  net,  by  mail,  $2.20 

TARRY  AT  HOME   TRAVELS 

By  Dr.  Edward  Everett  Hale. 

With  over  two  hundred  fine  illustrations  from  interesting  prints,  photographs,  etc., 
of  his  own  collection. 

Travel  series,  decorated  cloth,  boxed,  $2.00  net,  by  mail,  $2.20 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

PUBLISHEES,   64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOBZ 


Illustrated  Descriptions  of  Foreign  Cities,  etc. 

By  F.    MARION    CRAWFORD 
Salve  Venetia! 

Gleanings  from  History.     Richly  illustrated  with  29  photogravure  plates,  and 
220  illustrations  in  the  text  from  drawings  by  Mr.  Joseph  Pennell. 

In  two  volumes,  cloth,  8vo,  in  a  box,  $5.00  net 
Ave  Roma  Immortalis ! 

"It  is  the  most  —  oh,  far  and  away  the  most  —  interesting  book  I  ever  read 
about  Rome.    It  fascinates  me."  —  Dr.  Weir  Mitchell. 

Profusely  illustrated.     Cloth,  8vo,  $2.jo  net 
Southern  Italy  and  Sicily  and  The  Rulers  of  the  South 

"  Uncommonly  tangible  and  vivid,  so  that  . .  .  each  heroic  or  sinister  or  pathetic 
figure  stands  out  effectively  in  its  proper  place."  —  New  York  Tribune. 

Fully  illustrated,  cloth,  8vo,  %2.5o  net 


In  the  "Old  World  Travel"  Series 

Venetia  and  Northern  Italy 

By  Cecil  Headlam,    Illustrated  in  color  and  line  by  Gordon  Home. 

Along  the  Rivieras  of  France  and  Italy 

Written  and  illustrated  in  color  and  line  by  Gordon  Home. 

Each  has  2^  plates  in  color,  reproduced  from  paintings 
by  Gordon  Home.     Cloth,  square  8vo,  at  $2.50  net 


By  E.    V.    LUCAS 

A  Wanderer  in  Holland 

"  Mr.  Lucas  is  a  man  of  taste  and  culture,  who  has  apparently  preserved  all  the 
zest  of  youth  for  things  beautiful,  touching,  quaint,  or  humorous,  — especially 
humorous,  —  and  his  own  unaffected  enjoyment  gives  to  his  pages  a  most  en- 
dearing freshness  and  sparkle.  ...     In  short,  the  book  is  a  charming  one." 

—  AVw  York  Tributte. 

With  20  illustrations  in  color  by  Herbert  Marshall  and  J4 
illustrations  after  "  Dutch  Old  Masters."    Cloth,  $2.00  net 

A  Wanderer  in  London 

"  We  have  met  with  few  books  of  the  sort  so  readable  throughout.  It  is  a  book 
that  may  be  opened  at  any  place  and  read  with  pleasure  by  readers  who  have 
seen  London,  and  those  who  have  not  will  want  to  see  it  after  reading  the  book 
of  one  who  knows  it  so  well."  —  New  York  Evening  Sun. 

16  plates  in  colors  and  other  illustrations.     Cloth,  %i.75  net 


THE  MACMILLAN  COMPANY 

PUBLISHEES,   64-66  FIFTH  AVENUE,   NEW  YOEK 


American  History  Stories 

These  are  attractively  bound  in  cloth  and  illustrated  by  such  artists  as 
RUFUS  ZOGBAUM,  ALBERT  Herter,  B.  W.  Clinedinst,  and  others. 

Barnes's  Yankee  Ships  and  Yankee  Sailors 

Tales  of  1812.     By  jAMES  BARNES.     2g4pages.     $1.50. 
"  Good  stories,  well  told.     They  deal  with  the  gallant  defenders  of  such  vessels 
as  the  Chesapeake,  the  Wasp,  the  Vixen,  and  grand  Old  Ironsides."  —  New  Eng- 
land Magazine. 

Bruce's  The  Wilderness  Road 

By  H.  Addington  Bruce.    In  preparation. 
The  central  figure  in  this  s:ory  of  the  early  development  of  the  Middle  West  is 
Daniel  Boone,  the  man  who  blazed  the  famous  Wilderness  road. 

Channing  and  Lansing's  The  Story  of  the  Great  Lakes 

By  Edward  Channing  and  Marion  F.  Lansing.    400 pages.    $1.50. 
This  book  tells  the  story  of  these  great  inland  waterways  from  early  times  down 
to  the  present  when  they  play  so  important  a  part  in  the  industrial  progress  of  the 
Middle  West. 

Craddock's  The  Story  of  Old  Fort  Loudon 

By  Charles  Egbert  Craddock.    414 pages.    $1.50. 
A  story  of  pioneer  life  in  Tennessee  at  the  time  of  the  Cherokee  uprising  in  1760. 

Eggleston's  Southern  Soldier  Stories 

By  George  Cary  Eggleston.    260 pages.    $1.50. 
Forty-seven  stories  illustrating  the  heroism  of  those  brave  Americans  who  fought 
on  the  losing  side  of  the  Civil  War. 

Higginson's  Tales  of  the  Enchanted  Isles  of  the  Atlantic 

By  Thomas  Wentworth  HiGGiNSON.    2J4 pages.    $1.^0. 
This  is  a  collection  of  legends  which  were  well  known  to  the  people  of  Europe 
for  a  thousand  years  before  the  discovery  of  America. 

King's  De  Soto  and  His  Men  in  the  Land  of  Florida 

By  Grace  King.    J40 pages.    $1.^0. 
A  story  based  upon  Spanish  and    Portuguese  accounts   of  the   conquest  by  the 
brilliant  armada  which  sailed  under  De  Soto  in  1538  to  subdue  this  country. 

Spears's  New  England  Whalers 

By  John  R.  Spears.    42/ pages.    $1.50. 
"The  book  should   appeal   to  all  who   find   delight   in  brave  and  skilful  deeds, 
done  in  a  peaceful  cause,"  says  The  Nation. 

Stockton's  Buccaneers  and  Pirates  of  Our  Coast 

By  Frank  Stockton.    332  pages.    $1.50. 
Stories  of  Blackbeard,  Bartholemy,  Henry  Morgan,  Captain  Kidd,  and  a  score  of 
others  who  flew  the  black  flag  in  the  West  Indies  and  on  the  Spanish  Main. 


THE    MACMILLAN    COMPANY 

PTJBLISKEES,   64-66    FIFTH  AVENUE,  NEW  YOEK      >» 


r^/^^^ 


3  1205  00864  4047 


^K 


YflAHSIJ  3HT 

A  a  twit  1  »  •  .     lit    t-Ti  ,  ^  :, 


5181    9 


